


Med en Tråd (By A Thread)

by GrimAnonymousRex



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Depression, FACE Family, Friendship, Gen, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Hurt/Comfort, I need to go back to taking meds this isnt healthy, Other, Some characters listed will show up later in the story, Suicide Attempt, Sweden just needs a hug damnit, There are other nations too, Why Did I Write This?, and adding them all in, but they play a minor, or backrground role, was a bloody faff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimAnonymousRex/pseuds/GrimAnonymousRex
Summary: When Russia runs into Sweden, he can tell something is very wrong. After years of dealing with people being terrified of him, and an incident in a World Meeting leaves him utterly heartbroken, Sweden takes matters into his own hands. For Russia, this presents an opportunity for him to take care of another and try and redeem himself.I'd advise reader discretion if you're currently dealing with mental health issues, there will be warnings for chapters 3 and 4.EDIT 23/03/19: Updates will be uneven as heck because life is an utter cow sometimes... filled with a lot of metaphorical shit, but with cheese to compensate.





	1. What are you running from?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I've ever published so please bear with me. Constructive criticisms/suggestions are appreciated and I will moderate the comments. I wrote this because I'm currently dealing with mental health issues myself and this provided a way to work through them. I noticed that out of the Nordics it's usually Denmark and Iceland who are portrayed with having mental health issues and I wanted to see how it would work with Sweden. If this isn't your thing I'd really suggest not reading it, not everyone like to read angst and that's perfectly fine :) 
> 
> Language translations (when needed) will be at the end of the chapters. A lot of this (about 28/29 chapters) has been written already, so making changes based on suggestions will be easy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia nor any of the Hetalia Characters
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

Russia was late for the meeting. Very embarrassing seeing that this World Conference was being held in his own capital city of Moscow, but it was the middle of winter, the air thick with snow and the roads dangerous, even with Ivan’s car. Though car was a bit of an understatement. The vehicle was more of a modified Hummer that was not entirely road legal; it was an armoured behemoth that Ivan had to climb into with a top speed of 90mph. Not as fast as he’d have liked it but not bad, and it had lethal frontal ramming bar to which a snow plough could be fitted.

The perks of being a Nation, he’d bribed his government for a special license for it. Now _that_ had been an interesting conversation between his boss and him.

Ivan sped down the road towards the conference building, bemoaning his oversleeping and cursing the bottle of vodka which had induced it. Pulling into the underground car park he grabbed his briefcase and extracted himself from the tank, making sure to lock it securely.

Russia did not want a repeat of the fateful meeting where his beloved had been hijacked by America, Canada, Prussia and Netherlands the last time they’d been in his country. They drove it around the outskirts of Moscow while Ivan, Arthur and Ludwig gave chase in a commandeered T-99 Armata, thankfully sans missiles. The stress, paperwork and verbal eviscerating Ivan had received just wasn’t worth a reprieve, though the punishments he, England and Germany dished out to the offending nations was a very fond memory indeed… those short skirts and fishnets…

Shaking the images of very burly maids out of his mind he stormed into the building, running down the long corridor of the conference building towards the meeting room, his long coat and scarf billowing out behind him as he sped past confused and panicked humans.

“Nearly there!” he thought to himself, panting too hard to vocalise his triumph until…

SLAM!

Ivan collided hard with a mass of blue and black sprinting equally as fast in the opposite direction, and the pair fell to the floor, groaning as Ivan’s head had hit the person’s shoulder, while his briefcase smashed into the other’s chest and stomach, knocking the wind out of them.

“Дерьмо!” Ivan growled out, clutching his head in his hands. “Какого черта ты делал?! Смотрите, куда вы идете, идиот!!” He spat out to whichever fool dared run into him. Furious, Ivan sat up and turned to further vent at his assailant, his blurred vision picking out a long and sturdy royal blue military coat, black trousers, shirt and tie, and pale blonde hair.

“Shvetsiya,” he hissed, crawling over to the titanic Nordic and looming over his prone form, Russia’s dark purple aura engulfing them both. “You should be more careful,” Ivan’s sweet voice rang out sinister and dangerous to the ears of the Swedish man curled up and struggling to breathe before him. This bumbling oaf would pay dearly for his stupidity, making him even later than he already was. Furious, Russia raised his fist and was about to bring it down on the man’s head when… he stopped, slowly bringing his arm away and confusion over taking his anger.

A small and pitiful noise reached Ivan’s ears, and he realised that as well as being heavily winded, the Nation of Sweden was... _crying_?

That wasn’t right.

As Ivan’s vision cleared he saw that Sweden’s gloved hands were smothering his face, muffling the noises and hiding him away. Russia’s temper evaporated at the choking sounds coming out of the Sweden’s throat, a slight feeling of guilt creeping in, after-all he had been running and not looking where he was going too. Had he really hurt the Swede that much?

“Sweden, I’m sorry. Are-are you ok?” He asked, the menace in his voice replaced by worry- a genuine emotion he hadn’t experienced for another in a long time, though he was too startled to really pay heed to this fact.

When he got no answer, he placed his hand on Sweden’s shoulder to gain his attention. The tall blonde man jerked violently at the contact, and he scrambled away from Ivan in response to the gentle touch, climbing unsteadily to his feet and stumbling away as quickly as he could, crying still. The look on his face was nothing short of utter grief and shame.

“Wait, please!” Ivan called out for him and was about to follow when a certain bespectacled super-power poked his head through the meeting room door.

Seeing Ivan sat on his haunches, hair and clothes all messed up and rumpled, America let out a hearty laugh. “Looking good, Ivan, nice of you to finally arrive! Hahah!!” He was not put off in the least by the glare that the Russian man sent his way.

“Shut it, Amerika. I had a bit of a collision with Sweden,” he muttered acidly, though in truth he was a little worried about the former Viking.

“Oh, you ok?” Alfred asked. “Wait, Sweden? Where’d he go?” He asked, looking down the corridor to see where he was but saw nothing. A look that Ivan couldn’t place crossed the American man’s features. Something about the hardness in the youthful eyes put the Russian man on edge.

“I am fine, but I think Sweden is not. He ran off, but I do not know where to,” he replied, mouth turned down in a frown. “We ran into each other- I was running here, and he was sprinting down the corridor.” It puzzled him that the usually calm man was sprinting anywhere to begin with.

“Yeah, he kind of ran from the room,” Alfred replied tonelessly, scratching the back of his head. For some reason Ivan felt uneasy telling America what he saw, but his concern for the man outweighed it. “He was crying, I think I hit him in the chest with my case.” Ivan rumbled, guiltily.

“Oh.” Russia looked up into America’s face, the boyish features did not reflect the worry Ivan was feeling, instead they looked disgusted. Alfred opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by a strong German accent calling from inside the room.

“What is going on out there? America, who are you talking to?” Germany bellowed, annoyed at having yet another meeting ruined. Alfred helped Ivan up and they both entered the room, Alfred giving a run-down of the incident to the rest of the Nations. They listened intently but remained silent. It struck Russia as odd that many were stood up. It outright baffled him that some were clutching their weapons. Russia could sense an unhealthy note of discord in the air, anger and hatred. It confused him greatly and he had to ask.

“Just what is going on here? I apologise for my lateness- bad weather- but what has happened?”

No one spoke for moments. The silence was broken by someone clearing their throat softly before a familiar and English-accented voice spoke out.

“It’s a bit of a long story, Ivan.” Arthur looked away from the Russian’s man face to fiddle with his teacup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for this chapter:
> 
> "Дерьмо! Какого черта ты делал?! Смотрите, куда вы идете, идиот!!" Russian, "Shit! What were you doing?! Watch where you are going, idiot!!"
> 
> "Shvetsiya" Russian (English pronunciation) "Sweden"
> 
> Feel free to leave comments, or kudos if you enjoyed it. Might post the next two chapters consecutively on Christmas Day/Boxing Day if I can find the time for myself.
> 
> Have a good one!


	2. Indefensible

Sweden sat in his designated seat, flanked by Finland to his left and Estonia to his right. He wasn’t particularly annoyed by the lateness of the host Nation, being well accustomed to the freezing weather himself; he was, however, feeling uncomfortable and left out. Finland and Estonia were talking over him as if he wasn’t sat right between them, he’d been blanked by Poland when he tried to speak to him, and Italy had outright shrieked at the sight of him.

When was this going to end, when were people going to stop being terrified of him, he thought to himself. Loneliness weighed on him heavily, especially since Finland left his house. Berwald loathed going home at night to a dark and empty home.

Not even Hanatamago was with him at the moment, she’d been commandeered by Tino because he missed her and Berwald couldn't refuse him. Often, he would just shut himself in his room with a book or paperwork, not even bothering with his carpentry or other things he used to enjoy. There was only one other Nation who might understand how he felt, but in all honesty the history between them was such that he didn’t dare try and approach the Russian man. The feeling of internal discomfort increased, though outwardly he remained stoic and sharp-featured, as the atmosphere of the meeting room grew tenser, the other Nations losing their already short patience and the noise level rising until Germany called order.

“Enough! We cannot begin until Russia has arrived, so everyone just be quiet and patient!” He yelled, voice clear above the din. A different voice cried out in reply;

“Stupid arsehole, turning up late to his own bloody meeting!” Sweden frowned at England’s unfair judgement of the man, and was about to speak up when another voice chipped in.

“Damn Commie bastard, probably busy torturing someone in his basement. ‘ _Vould you like to get to know my friend, the lead pipe, da?_ ’ I bet he’s got the car battery out!” America guffawed, while beside Sweden Estonia stiffened, Eduard’s face turning grey and his eyes clouding over.

Now Sweden felt moved to say something in defence of Finland’s and his (albeit reluctant) friend. Berwald knew Eduard to be a good and kind man, he took great care of Tino over the years and, though Sweden couldn’t express it properly, he was always grateful to him for that. He knew of Russia’s treatment of the Baltic’s and that the reminder would hurt Eduard greatly, dredging up painful memories. He couldn’t let Eduard be hurt like this, he didn't deserve it, not at all.

“That’s enough.” Sweden’s deep voice rumbled across the room and brought silence. America stared at back at him. “It’s th’ middle of winter and the weather’s treacherous. Was difficult enough getting here myself. And don’t say horrible things like that about torture, ‘s’not right to bring things like that up, not here. Have some respect.” There, he’d said it. Sweden had broken his usual silence to defend Estonia and he felt rather glad, maybe even proud of himself.

The feeling of a good deed done well didn’t last as the eyes of the World glared at Berwald, dumbfounded. America looked ready to burst a blood vessel out of sheer indignation. Sweden became steadily more uncomfortable with the silence until Turkey spat out:

“You’re defending that bastard? I wouldn’t have thought a coward such as yourself had a backbone- couldn’t even involve yourself in the war but you can be nice to Russia, eh? So much for neutrality.”

“W-what?” Sweden stuttered, hurt by the accusation but determined not to let it show on his impassive features. He didn’t understand what brought this on. Sweden tried to make it clear what he meant, regretting that his words had been misunderstood. “I’m defending his lateness, yes, but-“

“A freak like you would feel cosy around him, I guess,” Sadiq continued. “You’re always so creepy and silent, like some sort of pervert. And what’s up with your eyes? Undressing us or something?” Turkey let out a loud laugh at the dark blush painting Sweden’s cheeks. Serve him right, he thought.

“Freak?” Berwald whispered. He could feel his features darkening, not in anger but humiliation, as he stared at the Turkish man. Sweden knew his eyes could be off-putting but he really couldn’t help it. When he looked at someone he wanted them to know that he was paying attention to them, listening to what they had to say. The fact that they looked the way they did was no fault of Sweden’s. And pervert? What the hell did that mean?

“Yeah! A freak of nature, you look like a troll! With a resting-bitch-face that could melt concrete!” A painfully familiar voice joined in. Denmark knew which nerves and sensitivities to prod at. There was always one thing, one particular sensitivity, that could be relied upon to produce a reaction.

“No, not a troll- a Berserker!” The Dane’s expression became one of sadistic glee, eyes smirking cruelly while his mouth turned up in a sharp-toothed rictus grin. Sweden’s head snapped around and he pinned Denmark with a glare. 

“That was a long time ago,” he hissed, loathing the reminder of his violent Viking adolescence, of conquests and days soaked in blood. The glare in his eyes did nothing to dissuade Denmark, only serving to prove him right.

“It sure doesn’t look that way right now!” Denmark was smug as he continued to poke, wanting to elicit an embarrassing response from his little “brother”; any opportunity to do so was always greatly received and taken advantage of. Before Norway could step in to deescalate the situation Denmark continued his taunts. “Feeling the bloodlust rise, are we? You know you want to let it out. You can't fool me, you’re pathetic!”  

That did the trick, the Dane had just pushed far enough and the look on Sweden’s face was now positively murderous. Berwald stood aghast. How dare he, when Denmark was no better?! 

“ **Nej**!” He roared, voice unearthly and resonating until he clapped his hand over his mouth in embarrassment, cheeks reddening at the bellow he'd released. Denmark opened his mouth to laugh at the bear-like roar, but was cut off by a scream.  

“Brother make him stop!” Lichtenstein cried, tears welling up in her jade eyes. The young girl yelped when Sweden met her eyes, he was trying to reassure her he meant no harm but his entire being radiated danger. Switzerland wasted no time drawing a gun in response, growling out a warning.

“You move, and I shoot! You’re worse than Russia- you just pretend to be normal- at least Russia admits he’s a monster!” Sweden froze, his mouth open and gasping; it hurt so much that people thought of him like this, that they could so easily turn into a mob like in one of America’s dreadful movies. Sweden couldn't have prepared for this, and he was becoming more anxious as the seconds ticked by. He’d only meant to defend Estonia, how had it gone so wrong? 

“I-I’m sorry!” He pleaded, holding his arms in front of himself in surrender. It didn’t work, no one had calmed down. “Please, I didn’t mean it, I would never-!” He stopped talking and went wide eyed when Switzerland took off the safety and fingered the trigger. 

Sweden knew he couldn’t defend himself against them, he didn’t have a chance to try and make it clear that he wouldn’t hurt anyone, but maybe if he asked someone for help. Apparently, Sweden was disliked by most of them, at least it felt that way to him. But there was one person he knew he could count on to help him. 

“F-Finland, please- I’m not a monster, I’m not like that! Please, tell them!” He implored his friend to give him aid but he could see the fear in Finland’s eyes. Tino sat stock still, unable to speak, in abject terror of the whole situation and the unsettling glint in Sweden’s eyes- he didn’t reconcile the emotion shining from the cyan depths to be Berwald’s own fright. 

“He won’t defend you, you’re evil!” Estonia hissed at him, furious with Berwald that he could have defended Russia, the one who held him captive and tormented him for so many years. Utter hatred clouded his mind and he cried out for vengeance any way he could get it. Ever since they first met, all those centuries ago, Eduard had been petrified of the blonde giant, yet another nation taking advantage of him and forcing him down into the dirt.  

Not this time.

“Finland is terrified of you, everyone is! Becoming independent was the best thing that could have happened to him! You deserve to be alone!” He yelled.

A disbelieving “What?” was all Sweden could manage in response as his heart clenched painfully in his chest. He knew that he scared Tino in the beginning, but he thought that had changed. And he _deserved_ his loneliness? No, surely not, but Berwald could only see pure loathing in Eduard's eyes and before he could even begin to apologise Estonia continued with his tirade, wanting to make Sweden suffer the same as he had done. There was one thing that could guarantee the man’s total humiliation, something Finland had told him long ago, and his tongue lashed out the words like a whip. It was a half-truth, he knew, but the way he worded it would let the other countries jump to a conclusion and would guarantee the man’s complete mortification.

“Finland told me how you never spoke to him, that you were always angry and distant and controlling! You held him captive! I know you insisted that you sleep together!” He screamed.  

A thick silence drowned the room with the weight of Estonia’s words; a pin-drop would have been deafening as they collectively misinterpreted his statement. As soon as the words left Estonia’s lips, Sweden’s fate had been sealed. He was only half aware of Finland sprinting from the room, fleeing him.

The blood drained out of Sweden’s face and he felt his knees go weak. All hell broke loose as weapons were drawn, threats were yelled, and awful slurs were thrown at Sweden; condemnations of his actions and of apparently forcing himself on another. Sweden knew at that moment he was hated, looking around from one nation to the next as he became more shamed by the second.

He could faintly hear Iceland and Norway finally coming to his defence, but no one would listen. Finland had turned away in embarrassment at the fact that his nightly cuddling had been exposed to the world, and mortified by Estonia revealing the things he had told him hundreds of years ago when he was too naïve to understand the meaning behind Sweden’s actions. He lurched out of his seat and ran from the room before the Nations had turned on Sweden. If he hadn't run away, thoughts of humiliation drowning the rational parts of his mind, the Finnish personification would have heard the slew of rancour and abuse being hurled at his neighbour. All his running did was lend further credence to the lie.  

Sweden couldn't bear to breathe, hyperventilating and overwhelmed by everything. Scalding, acid tears flooded his eyes as people started to stalk towards him, as if he were their prey and they were trying to corner him. Finland had abandoned him, left him all alone. Berwald now started to fear for his safety while the Nations came closer and closer still, never mind his dignity. His heart pounded against his ribcage, threatening to explode. How had this happened?! No, no, no… 

“NEJ!” He wailed over the cacophony, shaking his head violently and bringing his hands to his face. Berwald felt the instinctual edict to flee and he could do nothing but obey, his powerful legs almost blurring he ran so fast. Barrelling through the doors, he thankfully missed the incensed nations, and sprinted down the corridor not caring where he ended up, just needing to run far away.

What were they going to do to him? He imagined the worst- the thought that he could be stripped of his Nationhood sickened his stomach. Unfortunately, in his fright he neglected to look where he was going, leading him right into the path of Ivan- a cruel irony. 

Physical pain exploded in his chest on impact and he fell to the floor, tears scorching his cheeks and burning his eyes; he broke down so forcefully that he couldn’t breathe, utter panic overwhelming him. Sweden could barely hear the Russian and English being yelled at him over the heartbeat pounding in his ears, until Ivan’s voice turned quiet. Berwald cried harder, fearing what the Russian man would do in retaliation, but a blow never came. Instead, there was a: 

“Sweden, I’m sorry. Are-are you ok?”  

He couldn’t answer, his throat was too tight with dread. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening, why…  The feeling of something on his shoulder made him flail in shock before scrabbling desperately to his feet and fleeing once more, ignoring the plea for him to stop and the pain in his torso from bruised ribs. Sweden ran to the lift and jumped in, haphazardly punching a button for a higher floor and weeping like the world had ended, utterly broken and ashamed, his self-esteem in tatters and dignity in shreds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> "Nej"; Swedish, "No"
> 
> Hopefully, my Swedish translations should be decent because I am currently learning how to speak it. Duolingo comes up with some right gems, doesn't it? Out of nowhere I got "They will call me if she dies during the night" as a phrase I had to learn. Bloody psychopathic owl.
> 
> Edit 1st July: I got it a little historically wrong in this chapter, so I've changed the sentence "especially since Finland’s independence from him" to "especially since Finland left his house". Thanks again to cutoutscout for pointing it out to me :)


	3. The Only Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted suicide. Please don't read this chapter if you find such things difficult to cope with or if they trigger you.

“How can I ever face them again?” Sweden sobbed into his gloved hands. The shame he felt was too much to bear, the weight of it made him collapse to his knees, breathing fast and shallow.  

“How?! I can’t! I never hurt him!” How had this happened? Was it really so believable that he could force himself on another, because of his past, how he was? He couldn’t have prepared himself for that, much less could he defend himself when no one would have listened. He was grateful that Norway and Iceland had tried to help him, but it wasn’t enough. Berwald hadn't been abandoned, not entirely, but no one else stood up for him. Not even Finland, and that had hurt the most, every bit as much as the damage done to his reputation.  

“I won’t,” he cried out in refusal, “I can’t, I won’t!” More tears spilled over, there wasn’t anything he could do. Sweden panicked over his fate, he was trapped, there was no way out. 

 _Unless…_  

At that moment something buried deep inside Berwald broke free, making him lightheaded while a terrible clarity fogged his mind. Bubbling up through the emotions and hurt, the option presented itself to him. There was an escape route, one that he’d considered several times over the past few years on the more lonely and hopeless days, but one that he’d never quite been able to go through with, always telling himself that there was a reason not to put himself through it. Now, he thought, there was a real reason, to run away completely. 

“I won’t face them ever again.” Sweden whispered to himself, scrunching his eyes closed. “I am a monster. I deserve it,” he breathed, standing up from the floor of the lift, smoothing his coat down and straightening his tie and glasses so he could face his end with what little dignity he had left. He could escape his fellow countries, but he couldn’t escape the truth of it all. Berwald could run, but he certainly couldn’t hide. 

The doors opened, and he walked out, not entirely aware of his actions as he made his way to find a bathroom. The floor was silent, not a sign of life anywhere. “ _Good_ ,” he thought. Sweden found the bathroom soon enough and went inside. The door couldn’t be locked from the inside but that didn’t matter. 

Sweden had made up his mind. He knew Nations could not permanently die unless their country was destroyed but that didn’t mean they were invincible. If a Nation’s body became damaged enough then two things would happen: they would either fall into a deep coma while their bodies repaired themselves, or their bodies would die for a time until the healing process could begin, and sometimes they were brought back by another.  

There was also the process of removing his Nationhood, but that thought terrified him more than anything. It was cowardly what he was doing, Berwald knew that, but he couldn’t put his people through the loss of their personification. He might have wanted to die, but Sweden couldn’t bear to take his people down with him; his children were innocent.  

Either way death and unawareness was assured, and Sweden pinned his hopes on never again having to open his eyes to the world that loathed him. This was the only way to escape it all, and the only way to ensure his peace.  

They could lock his body up, strip him of everything, even his Nation status, but if Sweden was not functionally alive he wouldn’t have to suffer, and in this case neither would his people- if his position was stripped by another Nation then life for his citizens would continue as normal until a new personification emerged, or the territories would come under the ownership of the victorious nation (or nations), as was the fate of the Ancients. Even his own father, Scandinavia, had passed this way and handed down the lands to his children. Only if the ties were removed by Sweden himself would his lands and people become endangered; Atlantis had abandoned his Nationhood the same way, submerging his lands to the sea and reducing all knowledge of the island to fiction. 

This way gave him control over his fate; they’d find him afterwards, who knows how long, and deal with whatever fallout there might be. After all, who’d miss the tall Swede, mourn him? He choked a quiet sob at this desolate realisation- he held no worth to anyone.  

Sweden took off his massive, royal blue overcoat and folded it neatly on the counter, it was virtually synonymous with him and without it he felt bare. He removed his gloves and placed them delicately on his coat, hands clammy and chill. With shaking fingers, he took off his glasses, vision blurring and distorting as set them to the side before undoing his long, black tie. Berwald realised then he had no weapons with him, nothing but his necktie.  

He would have preferred a quick and clinical shot to the temple, maybe even a peaceful concoction of medicines, but there was nothing else, and Berwald needed to be quick- no one would come to his aid, but they might come to bring him back and make him face justice for his “crimes”, a notion which sent a thrill of fear down his spine, pooling unpleasantly in the depths of his stomach. It would have to do, he thought. Berwald felt small and vulnerable standing in the middle of the cold bathroom, his black outfit contrasting to the white of the tiles, marking him out as an indelible, ugly stain.  

An uncertainty crept in: “Do I really want this?” He asked himself, wrapping his tie around his hand absentmindedly, the fabric silken against his rough palms. He thought of Finland, smiling, happy Tino drawing at the table in his kitchen, their walks with Hanatamago, cooking meals together and innocent warm embraces in winter. At least, Berwald thought them innocent, Tino obviously thought otherwise and told Eduard so.  

Thoughts of times long past seeped away and he thought of Finland’s face in the meeting, staring up at him in wide-eyed fear while Estonia’s accusations rang in his ears. He had left him there, unable to defend himself. There was no other way, and Berwald pulled the tie taught between his fists, pulling himself away from delaying the inevitable.  

“Denmark was right, ‘m pathetic, a coward,” he sniffled. “I’ve nothing left.” Centuries of feeling isolated and repulsive every single time a nation flinched away from him, all the encounters where his fellow countries didn’t dare meet his eyes or ran away from him flashed before his eyes. This was for the best. He didn’t even bother with any form of note- who would care? Berwald just wanted it all to end.  

Taking a step forward, Berwald secured the thicker end of his necktie to the metal which connected the toilet stands together, tying a secure knot in the fabric in spite of his shaking hands. His height would be a disadvantage here, he realised. Berwald wrapped the thin end tightly around his neck, once, twice, before making a knot at the back of his head. His breathing sped up in response to the tightness around his throat, and he could feel his airways and blood vessels constricting.  

“I can’t do this anymore,” he murmured softly, closing his watery eyes. Finally, it would all be over soon. 

Berwald let his knees go weak and bend down as if going to kneel, slowly lowering himself as far as the makeshift rope would let him. His tie went taught under the strain of his heavy body and desperately he prayed it wouldn’t snap. He let his weight drag him lower, tightening the tie unbearably around his throat, suffocating him slowly. Hanging was never a pleasant way to die, he recalled. Better the neck should snap quickly rather than prolonged asphyxia, but he lacked the luxury of choice and it hurt,  _god it hurt_! 

The sudden instinct to survive jolted through Sweden’s body and he snapped open his eyes, bringing his hands up to clutch his throat, his tie, anything, blunt fingernails digging painfully into his flesh; he wasn’t even aware of the blood he was drawing as he ripped viciously into his skin, such was the pain around his neck. Black spots danced around his dimming vision and his chest screamed for air. Part of Berwald’s brain told him to fight, but he instead fought to ignore it, pleading for it all to go away. Eventually, his mind began to slow and go blissfully quiet, the point of no return. His tongue went numb as he gagged around it and his lips felt oddly tingly, as if someone were sticking pins in them.

Time lost all meaning as he slowly choked himself to death, sensing the different bits of his body start to shut down; his heart was pounding and arresting while his lungs burned, mouth opened wide to gulp in breaths that weren’t there. Berwald’s vision became a shortening tunnel as he lost the feeling in his limbs, arms falling to his sides from his throat when the tension left his muscles, nervous control fleeing him. Had anyone else been there to observe it, they would have seen the light in his bloodshot eyes start to dim and flicker.  

“ _Forgive me, please forgive me,_ ” he begged, thinking of his government and royal family, icy tears streaming down his cheeks. The Kingdom of Sweden was disgraced, utterly condemned to ruin, but even now he still couldn’t bring himself to sever the connection to his lands; his people were all the legacy he had left. Berwald had nothing else and he clung to their life force in his final moments, taking comfort in the love he still felt for them, even if it wasn’t returned, and rejoicing in the way their presence still hummed in his very bones. It was warm, so warm and peaceful as he thought of his children. They were beautiful where he was ugly, happy and sunny where he was cold and lonely. No, Sweden could not let go of any of them. 

His vision dimmed for a second before flashing brilliant white. A choked sound escaped his throat when he saw Finland stood before him, transparent yet solid. Sweden couldn’t force his leaden arms up to reach out and hold his beloved for one last time, so he simply gazed at his cherubic face instead.  

Tino came back for him, he wasn’t alone anymore. His Finland hadn't abandoned him after all. The tears fell harder in a gratitude he couldn’t vocalise. 

“ _Fin…_ ”  

A fierce agony tore through his chest as his heart cantered rapidly towards its’ final beats, breaking for all he’d lost. Tino wasn’t crying for him; no one would cry for him. Over his heartbeat, he could hear a faint rumbling in the distance which shook his very core, tremors spreading even to his fingers and toes.

Berwald’s vision of Tino smiled sweetly in a way he’d never done in life, eyes warm and crinkled, lips turned up at the corners in the most beautiful expression he'd ever seen. In the light of the bathroom, Tino’s white hair held a halo-like quality, a blessed angel come to ease him into death, to guide him away from all the pain, all his suffering. He almost smiled, and in that moment, he felt nothing but sheer bliss. The man he loved, had adored for centuries, was here with him, and nothing could take that away from him.

The seraphic being stepped forward and cupped Berwald’s face in his small hands affectionately, cherishing him sweetly. He wasn’t worried anymore; he held no fear of death, the aftermath, of anything. The only thing Berwald knew was a sense of safety and security more profound and certain than he’d ever experienced. Soon he would know peace for the first time in his long life, it would all be over.

As if he knew what Berwald was thinking, Tino’s smile grew wider, positively beaming at him in his final seconds. Berwald could almost feel his face tingle at the tender contact, could imagine Tino’s thumbs lovingly caressing gentle circles onto his cheeks and stroking away his tears, such was his dying mind's attempt at comfort. He felt the weight of everything leave him as Tino leant forward, placing a tender kiss on Berwald’s forehead and making his heart surge for one final beat.  

As feather soft lips pressed to his skin, everything faded into darkness.

“… _I’m so sorry.”_


	4. International Search and Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains a bit of first aid/emergency resuscitation/semi-surgical procedure. I apologise for this in advance and if you find things like these triggering (as do I but I found it helped me to write it) then perhaps give this a miss; I don't want to upset anyone so please heed the warning if you find content like this uncomfortable.

Russia listened to what happened in stunned silence. He couldn’t quite believe it at first, but as he looked around his fellow countries faces he knew they were telling the truth. Anger flared in his chest at their idiocy. None of them looked at all ashamed or remorseful of their treatment of Sweden. Other feelings joined the anger, and Ivan couldn’t explain it at first; he felt… sorry for Berwald? Pity? Sadness? Ivan decided it was all of the above. In spite of previous battles and history, he felt the Swedish man was somewhat a kindred spirit. And now, his supposed friends had broken him.

But something did bother him, a particular accusation which he knew needed to be addressed before his feelings could be solidified, set in stone, and if it were the truth then Russia would gladly join his fellow nations in bringing about justice. If it was the truth, Sweden had to be punished.

If. 

“Finland.” He spoke quietly to the small nation he had once held under his thumb, but there was no malice in his voice this time, only a real concern. He had since returned to the conference room while Russia had been digesting the information and was clearly still distressed from the situation, and worried that Sweden hadn't returned to the room yet. In spite of his confusion and worry, he looked to Russia and waited for him to speak. 

“Is what Estonia says true? Did Sweden force himself on you, make you… have sex with him?” The tension in the air was palpable and Finland’s jaw dropped in shock. 

“Sex?! No, never!” He cried. “We never had sex! What made you think that?” Finland felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. “What are you talking about? Where is Sweden?” 

“But Estonia said he made you sleep together!” England gasped, realisation dawning on him. They’d made a mistake. A huge mistake. 

Finland stood up. “Not like that!!” He cried. “Why did you- Eduard!” He turned to gape at his neighbour as the penny dropped and he finally saw the double meaning in the Estonian’s man’s words. Tino had been too scared to speak up in the meeting, for fear that he would anger Berwald somehow, but now he wasn’t there he found his tongue. He shouldn’t have run, he shouldn’t have left Berwald on his own like that. 

“Well then why didn’t that stupid bastard defend himself?!” Switzerland argued. 

“Sweden isn’t stupid, and he’s not a-a monster! He looks scary, yes, but he’s a good man and he would never force himself on anyone. How could you even think that?! Did you even give him a chance to defend himself?” Tino knew well how easily Sweden could feel embarrassed, and how easy it was for him to become non-communicative when stressed or upset. He had ignored this fact before when Berwald had asked him to be his voice, but he wouldn't make the same mistake again. The Finn turned his incensed gaze upon his Eduard, preparing to verbally eviscerate the man. “You ignorant bastard, this is all your fault! What have you done?! How _dare_ y- AH!“  

Finland’s tirade was cut off and he suddenly gasped, clutching at his chest, his eyes wide and panicked as a terrible pain struck him; it felt like ice had formed in his organs, sharp, vicious shards of coldness. “Perkele!” At first, he feared his lands were under attack, but reaching out to them he realised that there wasn’t anything wrong with his country. “What’s happening?!” He whimpered, fear wrapping around his gut and twisting it. An astounding feeling off loss gripped his soul, like everything he knew was falling apart and it was only getting worse. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered feeling like this before, but he couldn't recall the reason why, or even if there was a reason. The panic in his eyes was clear as he met Russia’s gaze. 

Ivan too felt a sharp pain in his lungs and tongue, like they were burning inside him. Looking around the other Nations he registered their various states of distress, and even Eduard looked as if he were about to vomit.

Panicked voices were raised as some of the the personifications questioned the meaning of this esoteric pain, until China related the significance to them.  He, alongside several others, had lived long enough to become accustomed to the feeling: one of their kind was dangerously close to death, though he'd not felt it for a very long time. It was a strange mechanism which served as an attempt to allow help to come, to prevent the loss of a countries’ manifestation, and as China explained to those who didn't know, they understood why it was happening.

It was Sweden. Worse still, they realised the likelihood of what he was doing.

“Everyone, spread out and search the building, NOW!” Germany bellowed the order even as he felt he could collapse from the nausea he was experiencing. Quick now to obey, the Nations rushed out of the conference room, some staying on the ground level while others took to the first, second and third floors.  

Ivan decided to search the second floor and was joined by Belarus, Canada, and France. A grim feeling had settled in their chests alongside the pains, making it hard to breathe but Sweden had to be found, and they clung to the hope that he had not ended his eternity by cutting the ties to his country. Putting their feelings aside for the sake of tactics they split up and hurriedly searched the rooms but found no sign of life, slamming open doors and shouting as they went.  

Canada had searched nearly every room down his end of the corridor, finding nothing. The quiet man hoped that Sweden was perhaps on another floor and that he hadn’t left the confines of the building. If he had, then it was doubtful the nations would find him; the thought of a human finding Sweden instead was highly undesirable. It was certain that the Swedish government would be in uproar at the events of the morning, how would they react to an investigation into the death of their personification in another Nation's land, especially when that other nation was Russia?  

“God,” the Canadian thought. “What the hell do we tell his bosses, where do we even start?” 

Minutes passed as the search continued, the Northern American man turning away from the corridor he’d focused on to head back towards the lifts. Concern waited his lithe frame as he trudged away, before stopping suddenly. “What the?...” He thought, looking around him to see what made him pause, but there was nothing. He could hear France calling out at the other end of the floor and Russia still slamming open doors, but that wasn’t what startled him. 

Moving once more, Canada felt a tingling sensation in his curl as he neared the men’s bathroom. The sensation spread to his whole body the closer the Canadian representative got to it and dread settled in his stomach. Feeling now a sharp prickle in his skin, Canada burst into the bathroom and nearly threw up at the sight that greeted him, his hand flying up to his mouth to quash the bile in his throat. It was like a nightmare, it couldn't be real but it was.

“IN HERE!” Canada's scream echoed loudly off the tiles as he rushed forward to Sweden’s body, hearing a mini stampede headed his way. Sweden’s purpled face was tilted slightly upwards, gazing towards the ceiling with vacant, bloodshot eyes and his mouth slack, lips bruised and swollen. His strong arms hung limply at his sides while his legs were bent towards the floor, the toes of his boots resting on the tiles as the tie supported his mass successfully. Canada had no idea what it would look like if Sweden removed the land connection, but he hoped this wasn't it.

As Canada lifted up Sweden under the shoulders to take the strain, Belarus charged into the room, pausing for a second and taking in the sight of Canada supporting Sweden's corpse in his arms while the tie still held him hanging. She didn’t have to think as she drew her knife and slashed the tie to cut Sweden down, his massive form unnaturally slack, like a puppet whose strings had been severed as Canada laid the Swedish man onto the floor. France and Russia joined them as Belarus carefully but quickly cut the tie away from his bleeding neck, revealing ghastly marks and welts from where the material had cut into him. She backed away to let France and Canada work on him, finding an odd feeling pity replacing her usual apathy towards any person but her brother. There was blood smeared on her fingertips. 

Russia was already calling for an ambulance, barking out orders to the operator and relaying the situation.  “ _Sestra_ , go tell the others we’ve found him and tell Germaniya to wait for the ambulance, bring them up to the second floor.” Belarus nodded quickly and ran out of the room, her blue dress billowing out behind her. 

As Russia continued to communicate with the dispatcher, France was trying desperately to revive their fallen comrade, putting his medical training into practice and giving CPR while Canada provided the breaths every thirty compressions. After a couple of minutes they swapped, allowing France to take a break and think. Sweden’s chest was not rising properly when he administered a breath. France’s handsome features darkened with the realisation that Sweden needed an emergency tracheotomy. 

“Russie, I need a knife, vodka and a pen, now!” France barked at the tall man. “Matthieu, take over while I prepare things.” Russia took out his small penknife, his metal flask and his pen, handing them to the Frenchman and wondering what he intended to do, watching as France hollowed out the pen and doused it and the knife in the alcohol.

“Move!” He instructed his son. “I’ll need your tie in a second, oui?” Russia had to admit he was impressed despite himself as he observed the pair working in tandem to bring Sweden back, as if doing so was as natural as breathing in and out.

“Oui!” Canada focused his attention to holding Sweden’s hand while his father prepared to operate; he was compelled to watch the procedure by a dreadful fascination, he couldn’t bring himself to look away no matter how much he wanted to. Francis ripped open Berwald’s shirt and splashed vodka over his neck and the top of his chest, snatching up and breaking the chain of the Nordic cross necklace he was wearing. Using his fingers, he felt for the cartilage rings of the trachea, finding the space between two before making a swift and careful incision into his flesh. Blood flowed lazily out of the wound, spilling onto the pristine tiles. Francis inserted the pen, giving a swift blow down it to force air into the lungs as quickly as possible. The French personification flushed with relief; the procedure had worked and air lifted Berwald’s chest upwards.

“Tie!” He urged and grabbed it out of Canada’s hand, securing the material around the make-shift breathing tube to keep it in place. He resumed his compressions, feeling broken ribs moving beneath his hands as he worked to keep the poor man away from death. Minutes passed while France and Canada worked, still waiting for the paramedics to arrive. 

“Russie, how far away are they?” He said, out of breath. Sweden needed urgent hospitalisation; Francis couldn’t stand to think of the consequences if Berwald somehow didn’t survive. 

“Any second now!” Russia replied. 

“Papa!” Canada cried. “I can feel his pulse! It’s faint but it’s there!”

France ceased his compressions and gave another breath through the pen and looked at Sweden’s face, seeing his deep teal eyes empty and staring at nothing. Taking out his doctors torch he checked for pupillary reaction, desperately hoping for it to be there. A slight motion rewarded his efforts, a constriction and dilation response to the light. Seconds later a slight gasp emitted from the unconscious man’s mouth as he struggled to breathe, air whistling down the pen. 

Francis puffed out a huge breath in relief, the feeling of dread in response to a Nation’s passing gradually leaving his muscles. They’d brought him back, but Francis knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet; Sweden would undoubtedly be left comatose.  

“Thank God,” Canada breathed, looking down at Berwald’s face and reaching forward to rest a gentle hand on the Swedish giant’s brow, softly using his fingertips to close his dull eyes. It was unbearable to see them so devoid of anything hopeful. He didn’t realise he was crying until a tear slipped past the side of his nose, but once he had started to cry he couldn't stop. Shock was settling into his system and he found he couldn't move from Sweden's side; even though all he wanted to do was run he was frozen, limbs weak and tired.

“They’re in there” a feminine voice stated in Russian, the hard tone bringing the Nations to attention once more as the paramedics entered the bathroom and took over. One checked him over and intubated Berwald properly while another fixed monitors to his chest. Canada could no longer stand to be there watching and left the room with Belarus, finally finding the strength to do so and leaning on her for support. Natalya, for the first time in a long time, didn’t mind the contact of someone holding her arm to support themselves. She could tell how shocked he was, and truthfully she wasn't so far behind him. 

They brushed past Germany as he stood transfixed on the scene before him, unblinking as Sweden’s body was placed on a stretcher and fastened into place with straps and a contraption which kept his head in place. Blame constricted his chest at the thought that the actions of himself and his fellow countries had driven another to try and end his life. This was an unprecedented occurrence, and Germany found himself unable to apply calm and logical strategy to this situation, unable to exert control over it. The idea of that scared him more than he thought it should.  

“Tell them I’m going with them, Ivan,” Francis instructed, determined as he remembered his oaths; a doctor never leaves his patient. Ivan nodded, and quickly explained this to the medics. 

“Keep me updated, Frantsiya, I will join you at the hospital as soon as I can.” France nodded as he helped the medics lift Sweden to take him out of the bathroom, wheeling the stretcher to the lift. They exited on the ground floor, the shocked faces of personifications staring out from the conference room. France didn’t pay them any attention as they carted Sweden out to the ambulance, focusing only on the comatose man before him while the vehicle sped away into the snow, sirens blasting and lights flashing. 

Back in the bathroom Russia fixed Germany with a disgusted glare, like Ludwig was nothing more than a rancid piece of meat. “Get everyone back into the conference room, now, Germaniya. I am not leaving until this has been dealt with,” he said with a quiet voice, his calm tone conveying his well repressed fury, just waiting to be unleashed. Germany was surprised with Russia’s vehement declaration and gulped loudly, nodding before dashing out of the room to escape.  

Now alone, Russia quickly searched for a note, picking up the ruined necklace chain as he did so and holding it safe. Finding nothing, he turned to the stack of Sweden’s personal effects and gathered them up with care, placing the gloves and glasses in his pocket and neatly folding the coat over his arm. A small warmth pricked at his heart amidst the anger as he gently patted the soft material with one giant paw.

“They will not get away with this,” he whispered. A part of Russia was puzzled that this had affected him so greatly, that he felt this level of indignant loathing towards his fellow nations on behalf of another, someone he wasn’t even particularly close to, but he felt it nonetheless. Ivan couldn’t comprehend why Berwald’s well-being was suddenly so important to him, but it was. Maybe it was because he had played no direct part in the man’s suffering, or maybe it was the fact that for once he held some semblance of a moral high ground when he was usually the one scraping far below in the dirt, rather than an actual sense of care for Sweden. Right now, it didn’t matter the motive; feelings could be examined later, the priority now was a plan of action and retribution which needed forming.  

“Da,” Russia’s lavender eyes grew steely and arctic, “they will regret this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "Perkele"; Finnish multipurpose swear-word for things like "damn" or "fuck"
> 
> "Sestra"; Anglicised pronunciation for the Russian word for "sister". "Germaniya... Frantsiya" Anglicised pronunciations for the Russian words for Germany and France, respectively


	5. Reparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might aim for updating on Saturdays and Wednesdays as a schedule. Again, I'm open to comments and suggestions if people have them :)

An accusing silence which no one dared break smothered the meeting room. Finland and Lichtenstein were tearful, while nations like Estonia and Turkey paced in a futile attempt to maintain their self-righteousness. Eduard felt he had done the right thing in slandering Sweden, and his long-held grudges were satisfied. It had been justice for all he’d suffered, reparations for history, and for preventing any form of union with Finland. There had been an unhealthy amount of envy in Estonia’s heart towards the Swede, but now he felt clean, anew. It didn’t matter to him that the coward had taken a coward’s way out; did it?  

Meanwhile, Denmark regretted how far he’d taken it, knowing how shamed Sweden was by his past. In fact, regret didn’t do it justice to how he felt. Mathias was frantically trying to persuade himself to calm down because his brother just had to live, he wouldn’t die, could he? He’d given into the selfish urge to embarrass Berwald. He hadn't thought it would trigger such a reaction from the other Nations, it wasn’t meant to go that far, but it had. He tried his best to ignore the glares Norway was shooting him and Eduard, cringing every time he felt those indigo eyes drilling into him. 

On the other side of the room, Germany bit his fingernails in worry. Nothing like this had ever occurred before in their meetings. If someone had told Ludwig what was going to happen he wouldn’t have credited it, it was an impossibility. Ludwig prided himself of keeping order where he could, yet here he had failed utterly, and an innocent man was paying a steep price for it. 

The Nations who had stood by in silence and those who’d spoken out against Sweden pondered their involvement. Times when they had reacted badly to him out of fright came back to haunt them as they collectively discerned how this treatment would make him feel, the possible impact on his state of mind. Today had obviously been the straw that broke the camel’s back, driving Sweden to attempt suicide. But then there was the matter of Estonia’s revelation about Finland, and in the heat of the moment they couldn’t brook any sympathy towards a monster like that. At the time they had all hated the man for his actions, and now that it was known to be a falsehood they could only regret it. 

America stared at the news notification on his phone, the shrill beep cutting through the tension- an earthquake had rocked Stockholm, damaging buildings and infrastructure; the report mentioned several humans had been injured, a group of people trapped inside an office where the roof had collapsed. He quietly shared this information with the room. No human lives had yet been lost, but that could easily change. It made a sick sort of sense that damage would occur to his capital, his very heart. The American man spoke up again his tone laced with apprehension.

“What do we tell his government?”

Germany opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Italy, his voice low and solemn. “We tell them the truth, we can do nothing else.”

“If you’d stopped for a second, just one, and listened to reason this could have been avoided.” Norway’s deep voice was strained and brimming with emotion. Lukas was beside himself with anger; that his long-time compatriot had resorted to such a thing was unthinkable. He didn’t need to say anything else, the nation’s knew the Norwegian man was right, it needn’t have happened. 

Their thoughts were interrupted as the doors of the conference room slammed open, revealing an apocalyptically furious Russia. The dark aura which surrounded him rolled of his huge body in waves, the ends of his coat and scarf flapping as if caught by fierce winds. He was unarmed but carried a familiar blue coat over his arm, a bone-chilling cold sweeping the room. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourselves?” He asked, all too quiet and all too calm, his usually smiling face set in a hard grimace, and a burning wrath shining from the depth of his lavender eyes. “This will be the only chance you will receive for you to defend yourselves.” Russia gave them fair warning, but no one dared break the silence now. He looked around the room, daring one of the countries to defy him as his mind worked over his plan. 

“Turtsiya, Daniya, Shveytsaria, Estoniya.” Russia was so furious as he addressed them that he slipped into his native tongue, his voice deepening unnaturally. “You four were the ones who slandered Sweden most. I think it right that you should pay, literally. Between you, you will meet the costs for the hospital bills and any other treatments Berwald requires, and you are going to personally apologise to the Swedish government and royal family. Face-to-face, da?” Russia would ensure that Sweden got the best private treatment that their money could buy.  

The Nations in question said nothing, but returned Russia’s glare with anger of their own, save for Denmark who just looked confused- paying for treatment, why should they? The countries all had their own health insurance, supplemented in part by governments and taxes; Berwald would have to pay nothing to receive healthcare, but Ivan was determined that they be made to fund it. As for apologising to his governing bodies, that seemed reasonable under the circumstances but, for all but Denmark, their pride would not allow the humiliation of facing Berwald’s leaders. To Denmark, the punishment seemed reasonable, almost suspiciously so from one such as Russia.

"As for the rest of you, with the exception of Norway and Iceland, your punishment shall be this: you will each make a written apology for standing by and doing nothing, for allowing yourselves to strip Berwald of his self-worth, his dignity and his reputation, as well an endangering the wellbeing of his lands and people.” The Nordic brothers had made it clear that they alone had stood up for Berwald, and so Russia had made them exempt. He also knew of the earthquake in Sweden’s capital, and wanted justice for his new charge. Writing a letter of apology might have seemed weak, but truly what else could be done? They were Nations, it wasn’t as if there was more that could have been done to hold them accountable. 

“I can think of nothing better as recompense at the moment, but if Sweden ever recovers from this, you are all going to be contrite and treat him with the decency he deserves! We may not be human, but you have all lost your humanity. We have all been monsters in the past, Sweden included, but today you discriminated against him for his appearance, his personality and his defence of my lateness of all things!” Russia’s words left no room from escape from the truth of the matter as the fullness of their culpability was realised. The fury was leaving Russia now, but a dangerous trace remained when he turned to face the group responsible for all this mess.

Ivan could sense their stubbornness, thinking on his feet to increase the punishment any way he could. How to make them face it, Ivan pondered before it clicked suddenly- the bathroom, the very place where the desperate attempt had taken place.

“Come with me, now.” Ivan instructed them and led them out of the meeting room. They followed behind like students following a teacher to detention, humiliating them in front of their peers. Not knowing where they were going they walked without question. Estonia suspected he might have been taking them to a private room where Russia could show them the error of their ways in a more physical fashion. The thought made him pulse with rage, getting angrier and angrier as they ascended to the second floor. 

When it appeared that they had reached their destination, Estonia turned to his former captor, finding his voice and loading it with spite and accusations. “What do you expect to gain from this, Russia? Why do you care so much what happens to Sweden? You’re not close to him, he was even your enemy!” He asked, his eyes boring into Russia’s. "And what exactly to you plan to do to us now? If you think the idea of physical pain scares me still you're going to be very disappointed," he spat.

Ivan said nothing, simply opening the door.

Blood and rubbish left by the medics was strewn about the floor and the smell of death hung heavy in the room, sweet and pungent. Packets, tape and bandages littered around the place, soaking up the crimson and other fluids. Estonia paled, his eyes went wide as they lighted on the pieces of severed tie on the floor and dangling from the metal above the toilet door. It was sickening.

When Russia spoke it was little more than a whisper, soft and dangerous, treacherous ice lying hidden under snow. “I think you know why now, Estonia. You needed to see this, it wouldn’t have been enough for you to know what you did. I wanted this to be burned into your brain, Eduard. Never forget… _you_ did this.” 

"Clean it up, all of it," was the parting instruction he left them with, striding off down the corridor to drive to the hospital. He felt nothing, strangely. Not satisfied, as he should have been, not glad or happy. Grim, he settled on. Determined, but for what Ivan wasn't yet quite sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Germaniya... Shvetsiya...Turtsiya, Daniya, Shveytsaria, Estoniya" Anglicised pronunciations for the Russian country names "Germany, Sweden, Turkey, Denmark, Switzerland, Estonia."


	6. Nations made manifest

France anxiously paced the waiting room in the hospital, impatiently awaiting Russia’s arrival and news of Sweden’s condition. They had rushed him into theatre not long after they arrived so that his tracheotomy could be fixed, and his ribcage stapled back together. The unfortunate fact of giving CPR properly is that breakages to the ribs and sternum occur; they would likely take a few weeks to heal as opposed to the months required for humans. The people administering CPR can injure themselves too. Thumbs, fingers, knuckles can crack under the pressure of the rhythm _one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four_ at a rate of approximately 120 beats per minute.

France could now feel his left thumb was at least bruised at the knuckle, maybe cracked at worse. His hands still shook, a shiver passing down his spine as he saw Sweden’s face in his mind. It’s difficult to describe what death looks like with mere words, almost impossible to depict the absolute absence of life or light in the person’s eyes and the way people’s faces just relax into an expression of peace, be it easy or uneasy, other than to say that you’ll never forget it once you have seen it. Even Nations never got over it, only coped with it.

He kept looking at his watch and at the door, but no one came, it had been almost two hours. Feeling the exhaustion creeping up on him as the adrenaline wore off, France sat himself heavily into one of the uncomfortable chairs and buried his head in his hands. “Mon Dieu,” he breathed, saying a little prayer mentally. France was not necessarily a religious man, but sometimes it was all one could do to ask for help.  

The Nation of Love had been especially appalled by Estonia’s accusations; love which is forced on someone unwilling is not love at all- it is an evil of the worst nature. In the thick of the confrontation he had himself screamed at the Swedish man, making his fury known from the other side of the table how disgusted he was and how atrocious Sweden was. 

It was a few minutes later when Russia arrived, and France updated him on the situation as best he could. Russia returned the favour for France, explaining the punishments he’d doled out and leaving France staring remorsefully at the floor. 

“I would rather speak my apology in person, face-to-face if this is acceptable.” France stated, and Ivan understood perfectly. As long as an apology was given, that was all that mattered to him.

They waited a further two hours and, finally, a doctor came into the room, a dark-haired and slight man in his early thirties. Dr Chernov introduced himself with a firm hand-shake, frowning slightly at the strange feeling he got from the touch of the tall, pale man stood before him. It seemed like he knew him from somewhere but couldn’t for the life of him place him. He spoke in English for the benefit of the Frenchman. Though Dmitri Chernov was as straight as they came, there was something intensely desirable about the blonde, he was beautiful, almost too beautiful to be real with gorgeous, wavy, yellow locks of hair and neatly trimmed stubble on his chin, even though he did look exhausted and stressed. Dmitri shook of these odd feelings and got straight to the point. 

“Mr. Oxenstierna is in a critical condition. His ribs are now stable and we reversed his tracheotomy, but he is relying on breathing apparatus and we have no idea of how damaged his brain might be. How long was he dead for, do you know?” Dr Chernov enquired.

“We don’t I’m afraid, but it wasn’t more than a few minutes certainly, and for most of that he was being respirated.” Ivan stopped and thought a moment. Berwald would physically heal quicker than a human, and this was likely to raise questions. He didn’t like to do this, but Ivan knew the oath of confidentiality which bound doctor’s tongues.

“ _Desperate times_ ”, he thought, choosing his next words carefully to explain to him what they were, a briefly as possible.  

“Doctor, there's something you need to understand- we aren't like you.” Dr Chernov looked at Russia in amused puzzlement but was interrupted before he could ask for clarification. “We are… more than humans. We cannot die properly, our hearts can stop beating for a time, but we heal quickly and revert to a comatose state until we are ready to exist once more.” Ivan replied carefully.  

A timid laugh broke the awkward silence, Dmitri shaking his head in disbelief; it was all rather cryptic.

“I don't understand, what do you mean you aren’t like us? What are you saying you are?” He asked, utterly confused. What had started out as a simple consultation with these gentlemen was rapidly turning into something bizarre. “If this is a joke, I’m afraid it’s lost on me.” The looks he was being given from both men unsettled him, particularly there was something in both of their presences now which suggested they were something beyond the human framework. But that had to be impossible, right? This didn’t feel right at all. 

Ivan sighed. Sometimes the easiest way to explain was to open a person’s eyes.

With this in mind Russia stood and placed his giant paw of a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, unleashing the raw energy of his spirit and allowing it to touch the child of his land. The doctor couldn’t speak, could only gasp in response to the intense feeling of power and belonging he felt, overwhelmed by the ancient being who stood in front of him thrumming with might. All at once Dr Chernov felt exhilarated, terrified and serene at the connection between him and the ethereal man touching his shoulder.

Ivan opened his mouth to speak once more, this time his voice profound yet graceful, coming from a place deep within his soul in his mother tongue. “ **I am a part of you, and you are part of me; a small part of my whole, the blood in my veins and the air I breathe. In a way, I am both your parent and your child; you cannot exist without me and without you I would be nothing**.” He felt right, so completely whole in body and spirit.

He paused to look at Francis, the Frenchman literally radiant as he let his own strength free, love and hope singing out from every molecule of his being. It was enough to make one weep.

“ **My friend and the man in your care are the same, but they belong to different peoples. I am Rossiya, child. This man is Frantsiya, Berwald Oxenstierna is Shvetsiya. We are Nations made manifest, a living, breathing Earth**.” Ivan removed his hand and looked into the doctor’s eyes; they were swimming with love and adoration as if Ivan was his beloved parent.

Russia’s heart lifted. _This_ was what his power should have been used for, to nurture, to inspire and care, but history related the tale of how his strength was used to oppress and subjugate, rather than unify his land with hope and goodness. Worse still, Russia had done so gladly under the command of his leaders. He shook himself back to the present and reigned in his might once more, feeling it recede to nothing more than a gentle _hum_ in his bones. 

“I see,“ Dr Chernov whispered, smiling in rapture and wiping the tears from his cheeks. The normally sceptic physician could do nothing but accept the truth he'd been shown, unable to refute the evidence in front of him. He'd never have thought that such a thing was possible, a Nation, a wealth of history, culture and ideas condensed into a single being. And he was  _treating_ one, he was actually responsible for the health and wellbeing of the Kingdom of Sweden... Dmitri suddenly felt rather overwhelmed at the prospect of the fate of an entire country resting on his shoulders. Russia and France were clearly waiting for an answer or something, so his minor existential crisis was placed on the back-burner for the time being.

“You can come and see him if you wish. He's in a coma but you never know, he might be able to hear you.” Ivan and Francis nodded their agreement and were led to the Critical Care Unit. The doctor pushed open the door and let them inside. The room was clean and bright, smelling heavily of disinfectant, and there in the middle of it was Sweden. Sensing the men wanted to be left alone with their friend, he decided to leave.  “I have other patients to attend to, a nurse will check by in a few minutes.” He said quietly and left. 

Unable yet to move closer to the sleeping figure, Francis busied himself with the chart at the end of the bed while Ivan approached him directly. The beeps of the heart monitor were steady and audible over the soft whirr of the machinery regulating Berwald’s breathing. Ivan glanced at the tubes looping from IV bags filled with saline and blood and followed them down to the cannulas embedded in his pale arm. There was a morphine drip too, ensuring no physical pain. A gown covered Berwald under the blankets, but Ivan could see the raised outlines of the bandages on his upper chest, extending up to his long neck.

The Russian man finally brought his eyes to Berwald’s face. The lower half was covered by the breathing apparatus and bandages which looked like they were pressing into the flesh uncomfortably. He hoped this wasn’t the case. Sweden’s skin was dreadfully pale, not a speck of colour anywhere, save for the dark shadows which lay beneath his closed eyes, making them look hollow and skeletal. His blonde hair was messy, sticking up in all different directions like a lion’s mane.  

Ivan didn’t even register his own movements as he took his glove off and gently smoothed down the flaxen locks in the most tender gesture he’d made in years. It felt… somehow warm inside him as he stroked down the strands neatly, surprising himself with how soft they felt, almost downy.

“He looks peaceful, non?” Francis asked quietly, now standing the other side of Berwald’s bed to hold one of his gigantic hands, shivering at the coldness, the _emptiness_ , in the fingers but wanting to convey comfort in any way he could. “Are you planning on staying with him tonight, Ivan?”

Russia considered this for a minute. Once more he considered why he was this involved, what did it matter. France was there out of a self-imposed duty of care underscored with guilt, but what of Russia? He looked at Sweden’s closed eyes, noting the slight flutter of the long, blonde lashes. He could no longer deny the amount of care he felt towards the man, he felt important in a way. In spite of their historical differences they were both similar in that they were feared, but different in that Ivan wielded it as a weapon and Berwald was wounded by it. Maybe when he woke up they could be friends, could be alone, together. 

“Da,” he sighed, resigned to his fate. The notion that maybe he was needed by someone lifted his spirit somewhat, he hadn't felt needed by anyone for years and he wanted to be. He wanted someone to want him and the familiarity it could bring.

“Would you mind if I stayed, too?” France asked, he was still unwilling to leave his patient just yet. 

“Nyet, Francis. I would be glad of the company.” Ivan replied honestly and France smiled back at him, albeit slightly sadly. “It might take some convincing though- I’ll call my boss. Ask for some strings to be pulled to get a private room.” He left the room to make the phone call, not even the hospital would argue with orders from _that_ high up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I speak from personal experience of seeing death firsthand and giving CPR and I tried to include that in this chapter. I hope you guys found it at least a little interesting the bit with Russia and France and the concept of the Nations having "abilities" or talents, because there is a lot more where that came from in later chapters, and the next one actually :)
> 
> I think that providing translations for this chapter would be as redundant as a degree in underwater basket-weaving


	7. Connections

While Russia left to call his bosses, Francis ruminated quietly. Was there anything else he could do to help? Probably he had done enough, in both a negative and positive capacity but surely he could do more, he thought. Despite the claims of others, France was not a selfish man, in his heart of hearts he cared deeply for those around him; his “children”, his Arthur, his people, all and sundry would be welcomed to him. It was this fact that had driven him to become a doctor, to help heal the ones he cared for and it served him well during the First and Second World Wars. 

Thinking all the while he sat, alone and still holding Sweden’s bearish hand, his mind stretched back through the centuries as he tried to recall something which might help Berwald. He seemed so peaceful in sleep, lying tucked under the covers and his face not strained by a scowl. France realised just how much Sweden's navy coat did to bulk out his already larger form, adding both width and height to make his figure tower above the rest, and how the dark grey and black uniform served to intimidate. The Swedish man looked a great deal less daunting like this, everything softened. He even looked younger, more boyish somehow in spite of how ill he looked.

Maybe he was projecting his own interpretation of this on him, but Francis pondered if all of Berwald's appearances were simply a protective measure for the man inside, a shield for the snide remarks and the fear he instilled that only served to form a vicious loop. The only time France had seen Sweden in anything remotely akin to "civvies" at a World Christmas Party he had worn a smart suit all in royal blue and black, and, while it looked classy, people had avoided him. They avoided England at that party too, but only because Arthur had been drunk enough to dress in his old pirate gear, cutlass, eye-patch and all. Francis smiled of the memory of what transpired later that night; for all his refinement today, nothing ever erased the brash and crude Captain Kirkland, he was very much still in there.

Still in there...

A memory flickered past his eyes and it clicked, there was a way he could help, a way to determine the extent of any potential damage and if Sweden, if Berwald, was still present and intact. He could to try something he’d seen England do once before when Canada fell into a coma during an illness in his childhood.  

At the time Arthur had explained to Francis that any Nation had the potential to do this, but it took a lot of effort and concentration to create the connection “between the souls” he’d cryptically stated. Simply, what Arthur had done was look inside Canada’s mind to see “how deep” he was in the coma and the chances of reawakening- it was cruder than mind-reading, Arthur had explained but it would give an idea of the chance of recovery. The purpose was always to see if the personification could be salvaged, or whether a new one was required. As their “child”, at odds though England and France were at the time, neither was prepared to risk Matthew’s life and lose him. 

France was especially suited to this, he had discovered. A part of the power his lands conferred to him was to be able feel the emotions of others as if they were his own, particularly feelings associated with love; that was how he had known Arthur truly loved him despite the Brit’s prickly exterior. Empathy- pure, but not so simple; Francis found that he could also manipulate the emotions of others, for better or worse. All he need do was touch the person’s skin.

It couldn’t hurt to try, he thought. Sweden deserved this much, at the very least, and France tried to recall the tutoring Arthur had given him decades ago, taking a deep breath in and preparing for the worst. 

Francis closed his eyes and blocked out the noise of the room, focusing only on his own breathing and the feeling of Berwald’s hand in his, concentrating on the coldness, the shape of his bones, the callouses and lines on his palm. The world started to shift as he reached out with his whole being, an instinctual desire to connect overcoming his thoughts. The chill became a warm and tingly sensation all around him, like pins and needles, and he allowed it to consume him entirely as he fell from one plane of being to the next. His body became like a phantom limb to him, disconnected from it as he currently was.

The darkness surrounding Francis was suffocating, bleak in absolute silence and stillness, but as he reached out further, delving deeper and deeper inside, the void began to fill. Like ripples on a pond Francis felt a multitude of emotions, quickly becoming overwhelmed by the depth of the heartache Berwald had felt. Loneliness and hopeless grief tore at his mind as he fought to overcome them and carry out his task. Something dangerous simmered just out of reach too, wild and feral, but it vanished before he could look too closely. 

The French nation had little idea that one who looked so outwardly apathetic could hide all this behind a poker-face, and he could stand it no longer; he “closed” his eyes in concentration and focused on feeling past the emotions to reach the man inside, blocking the noise out to feel nothing. Slowly, so slowly, the ripples began to dissipate, but still Francis searched for the one causing the disturbance. The negativity was a positive indication already that at least something of Berwald remained, it had to. All Francis had to do was unearth the man from where he'd been hidden.  

“ _But how? What should_ _I do now…?_ ” He considered. How to contact him? Tentatively, France called out with his mind. “Sweden? Berwald? Can you hear me?”

All he felt were hollow echoes reverberating around him as he spoke. Had he done something wrong? Or perhaps Sweden was too deep to reach yet, not ready to return from wherever he was resting, and France had acted prematurely. But then if France didn't bring him back would Sweden even return at all, could he do that? Stay buried and lost instead of facing this, was that what Berwald wanted?

No, he couldn't let that happen, Francis _wouldn't_ let that happen. He wouldn't lose hope. Perhaps he needed to be more reassuring, he thought, maybe he needed to make it clear to Berwald that he would be alright, that he would be safe and cared for, a comfort which should have been afforded him earlier.  

“You’re safe, in hospital, and Ivan and I are with you. Come on, Berwald. If you can hear me just answer me, talk to me, anything!” Still nothing, just dull repeats of his own voice bouncing of non-existent walls. This felt hopeless, all of it. He thought back to the meeting, back to finding Sweden having hanged himself because of their stupidity. They had trapped him, and with nowhere else to go, no options left when he couldn’t defend himself he had tried to end his suffering the only way he could. Sweden felt so ashamed, so tired and hurt; he just wanted it to stop, it just wasn't worth it any more. 

Francis registered that not all of these feelings were his, and it appalled him. He had thought Ivan’s strange and forceful request for an apology almost childish, such a weak form of penalty, when he’d heard it. 

He didn’t think that now.  

“I’m so sorry this happened, Sweden. What we did was wrong, completely wrong." Something  _shifted_. "We’re not going to leave you, I swear; you’re not alone now, Berwald.”  

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the crushing black lifted to a dark gray while he spoke and Francis struggled to remain in control, to not suddenly break out of Sweden’s mind as doing so could cause untold damage. He recognised the change to be some part of Berwald’s consciousness resurfacing and continued to address it, noticing now how a tiny spark glimmered up through the bleakness. It wasn’t hope or happiness, the little flicker of light, there was too much negativity for that, but it was Berwald, he just knew it! He’d done it, Francis had found him, he was safe! He let his relief flood through his being, feeling it ebb into Berwald and then feed back into Francis; if the man wasn't there, he wouldn't have felt the feeling bounce back to him.

“I know you can hear me now. You’re safe, mon ami, everything is going to be alright, I promise. Take all the time you need, but please- wake up.” He noticed that his words were no longer echoing, but it was as if the gloom was absorbing them, listening. France felt himself becoming weighted again as his mind started to leave naturally this time. His task was complete, now he could rest and Gods did he need it! He felt so tired, utterly exhausted as the landscape became brighter, taking him back out once more. “I can't stay here with you, but we are at your side. Please remember this, you are safe.” His words dissolved into the atmosphere as Francis felt a hand on his shoulder bring him back to the present, waking him with a start like he'd been falling from a great height. 

Russia's face loomed into view, lavender eyes contrasting starkly with beige-gray hair. He'd never felt so glad to see the Russian man before, or at least not since the Second World War. 

“Francis, are you alright? I’ve been trying to wake you for ages, you were shaking all over! How long have you been asleep?” Ivan fussed around him, for once worried for his friend and ally. The man looked dreadful.

“Urgh, non...” he grumbled. Too many questions, too loud! His head was pounding like he had a hangover and he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't throw up. Through bleary eyes Francis regarded Russia, his mouth feeling tacky and dry as it slowly formed an answer. “Since a few minutes after you left to call your boss, but I wasn't asleep, mon ami.” He replied, drowsily and aching all over but immensely relieved that it had worked- he’d gotten through to Sweden. 

“But that was an hour ago! What happened?” Ivan grabbed him a glass of water. It had taken most of the hour to get through to his boss, much to Ivan’s great annoyance. 

“Something Arthur once showed me.” He sat up, grimacing. “In short, I went inside Sweden’s consciousness slightly. The good news is he’s still in there,” Russia looked at him in shock, but he continued, “and when I was there he could hear me, I know it. I don’t know if he can hear us now, but he’ll wake up, I’m sure of it.” He mumbled out, tiredness fatiguing his entire being. “How did the call go?”

“We’re being granted permission to stay, they’re going to move him to a private suite soon since he’ll heal himself out of a critical condition”. Ivan replied. The call had been difficult to make but once his boss had been told the whole situation, and been subjected to a few thinly veiled threats, he capitulated to Russia’s demands.

“Bon,” Francis sighed, about to fall asleep before remembering something. “What of his government and royal family, how are they taking all this?”

Russia huffed out a breath and crossed his arms at the question, sitting back in his chair and looking at Berwald’s face. “They are furious, Francis. According to my _sestra_ , the representative from the Swedish embassy here stormed the conference and read the riot act.” Ivan left out that his older sibling had said that he made him look like Mother Teresa. “He made it clear, in no uncertain terms, how disgusted ruling body of Sweden is with all this. It’s a disgrace.”

Francis bit his lip, responding with a soft “Ah.” It was to be expected, their reaction, but Francis felt guilty for feeling glad that he had not been there himself. Ivan said nothing more and finally, he could hold back his exhaustion no longer, falling back into unconsciousness, his hand still closed around Berwald’s. His last thought before he fell asleep was of the warmth he could feel trickling into Sweden’s veins, chasing away the emptiness. 

Ivan only noticed when the uneasy silence became punctuated by soft, huffing breaths and he stared, equal parts worried and relieved at both men in front of him, brows furrowed and lips pursed in thought. He didn’t know that a nation could do such a thing for another, to connect on such an obscure level, but it made sense to him when he remembered the sharp tugging in his chest when Sweden was dying. There was a deep connection between Nations, but for what reason he couldn’t be sure. The fact that Francis had reached him was promising, it was a solid start for recovery. 

Francis snored lightly from the chair, his golden locks of hair falling across his cheeks. France was one of the few people Russia genuinely liked, they were very close during the Second World War and the fondness he felt all those years ago was still there, even if he wasn’t sure about showing it. But that was a different closeness than the one he desired, born of old alliances and forged in the heat of battles. Standing up, Ivan removed his warm winter coat and draped it over Francis’ sleeping form, gently brushing back the wayward strands of hair as he did so; another gesture of kindness, he smiled slightly- maybe there was a chance for his frigid heart yet. He couldn’t bring himself to disentangle France’s hand from Sweden’s, so he left it be and went back to sit down at Berwald’s other side, watching closely.

There were some slight changes from when they’d first come in the room. It was clear that Sweden was becoming more stable. Though his face remained pale and his eyes shadowed, the tone of his skin was decidedly less gray and sickly. Even his heartbeat sounded stronger on the monitor, more even as his chest rose and fell with mechanical regulation. France’s intervention had obviously achieved something positive, that much was clear even if he didn't understand it. That wasn’t to say that the healing had been sped up beyond the nation’s capabilities, just given a kick-start to get the process going, like jump-starting a car. 

Ivan reached up his hand to Berwald’s forehead to check his temperature, placing the back of his large fingers lightly against the skin. Sweden was still very cold, unnaturally so even as the anaesthesia worked through his system. Looking around, Ivan found an extra blanket and covered the Swede up, tucking the material loosely around Berwald’s arms but stopping at the shoulders so he wouldn’t accidentally touch the man’s neck. It had almost been like looking in a mirror when Belarus had cut the tie away from him. He shuddered fully and sat himself in the chair opposite France's.

“You’re going to end up with scars, Berwald,” he murmured, and touched his own scarf-clad throat self-consciously, shaking his head to clear his thoughts away from that dark path. He couldn’t let himself dwell on that, not now. “Maybe when you wake up I could give you a scarf- like mine. Would you like that?” He breathed to the unconscious man, before finding himself overtaken by a deep and troubled sleep.

 

_Safe. You are safe, the voice had said. Not alone, it reassured._

_When the words had first broken through to him he hadn’t fully understood. It was like being suddenly jolted out of a nightmare, unable to comprehend your surroundings. As he thought back on it, Berwald started to piece together the events which led him to his current predicament._

_The conference. The hatred and hurt. The bathroom and his feeble attempt to end his suffering. He was pathetic. Unworthy of being a Nation._

_He couldn’t see anything but darkness, and it terrified him. He had no sense of his body, nothing. The link to his land was there, intact, but it felt dulled and weakened. In spite of this, the words that the voice had spoken to him did comfort him slightly._

_If he was safe, maybe Berwald could allow himself a chance to hope that things might get better. If he wasn’t alone, maybe someone cared._

_Before he could let himself think any further, Berwald fell back to sleep._

 


	8. Awareness

_Ice. It was everywhere._ _Trees which had once borne fruit and green leaves stood encased in a deathly shroud. Drifts of snow buried houses and settlements, stalactites of ice making cathedrals of once warm homes. Even the people had fallen to it's deceptive embrace, made into statues with faces frozen in screams. All but him._

_The small child wondered through dark forests, shivering in his beige cloak and hat as the storm raged around him. Where had all this come from, it was so sudden! The seasons of snow had greeted his land regularly, a natural change from the autumn to winter but this was anything but natural._

_It was evil._

_A respite from the storm allowed him to seek shelter in the trees. In the hush, he tried once more the call for his sibling._

_"_ S _estra! Where are you?! Please, I'm scared!" His voice was lost to the deafening silence that the snowfall had brought, oh so still and deadly. He was lost and all alone, his older sister had vanished and left him in the wastes to wander across his land, whimpering as the dark shadows of the tall trees became foes. In his fright, Ivan tripped over a tree stump, falling heavily onto his arm. Warm crimson dripped onto pure white, freezing on contact._

_"Why?" Ivan started to cry, but there was no one to soothe his tears. The wind howled once more, snatching away his sobs as he curled up into a ball in the snow, not caring if he died. He was so lonely and cold, he wanted it to stop!_

_Death would have been preferable as the wind ceased again, bowing to it's master. Finally, he had found him._

_A voice Ivan knew so well now spoke to him, the gentle tone of falling snow belying the intentions of the tall, gray man who appeared before him, weathered hands reaching out to clasp Ivan's shivering form, cradling him in his arms. The cold was unbearable now, stinging his skin through his clothes, burning almost. "Hush, child. I will not kill you as I have the others. You are special... precious Rossiya. Come with me, Vanya, and I will make you strong. Together we will crush cities, bury armies. I will be your General, your power and might. All you need to say is 'yes'."_

_The little boy beheld the face of the embodiment of winter, eyes cruel but holding such promises, mouth smiling the rictus grin of suffering. He remained silent, confused and afraid of the inhuman being holding him close. Rancid breath ghosted over his cheeks, the smell of perpetual decay. A hand made it's way to his throat and_ squeezed _. The voice became as ice, cracking and splintering._

_"Say yes, Vanya. I might not kill you, but I can make you suffer. Do not disobey me, make the right choice."_

_Tighter..._

_"SAY YES!!"_

Ivan awoke to the sound of Francis talking to someone, annoyance clear in his tone, as he was startled out of his nightmare. He hadn't dreamt about that event for years, but every time he did he felt unclean. Why now, though, Ivan asked himself. Numbly, he brought his fingers up to massage his neck through his scarf where he could still feel chill fingers digging into his flesh. Normally, this nightmare would precede another one of the General's visits, something Ivan could do without right now- he had more important things to worry about. This time, though, the dream carried a dangerous undertone, it wasn't just a remembrance of his being beholden to Winter, it was something else as well. A warning, maybe, but of what he had no idea.

The demon sent out his powers to plague the lands of the world with his snow and ice, but Ivan was the only one he personally tormented. At least he assumed so; it was entirely possible that nations such as Canada, Greenland, and even the Nordics had been "approached" by him but he never asked, and Winter always claimed that Ivan was his "precious one". The very thought made him sick, even as the snow outside fell soft and billowy, blanketing the world.

What a despicable lie it told.

Countries like France had no idea how he suffered. But then, they all suffered differently, didn't they? War, famine, winter- it was all much of a muchness in the end. 

" _And now this,_ " he thought, turning to face the still slumbering Swede. Was he suffering right now, or was he beyond that in a place of peacefulness? Ivan found himself being surprisingly jealous of the latter option.

France, unaware of Russia's wakefulness, carried on his conversation and quickly grew frustrated with what he was hearing from the other end of the line. “Non, Allemagne, he has not woken yet, it’s been only a few hours. What else do you expect, _imbécile_?” He paused, and Ivan could hear Germany’s familiar and loud voice, though he couldn’t discern the words. France sighed tiredly and apologised, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Désolée, désolée, I’m tired and worried, Ludwig... Oui, Ivan is still here too…” He paused once more, and Ivan noted the way that Francis’ face dropped at what Ludwig was saying, his brow furrowing slightly. “They do? Do you think that’s wise?... Well, I guess, maybe it would help… Bon, until later then.” Francis gave a small huff as he ended the call but smiled when he saw Ivan was awake. The frightened whimpers and pained expressions had worried the Frenchman greatly, but he knew better than to ask outright what troubles were plaguing him.

"Good evening, Ivan."

The Russian man gave a nod in return, noting that his coat had been placed back over him like a blanket- Francis had obviously been awake for a while. He looked refreshed and bright, while Ivan could only assume he looked as awful as he felt, eyes dry and skin itchy.

"Did you sleep well, mon ami? It’s nearly 6pm, by the way.” He informed him, attempting to bring some normality back. Francis already knew the answer to the question, but asked it all the same.

“Da, I did,” he lied. “Was that Germaniya you were talking to? What did he want?” 

Francis’ smile dropped slightly and he looked over to Berwald, giving a slight sigh. “His famille are visiting him tonight. They are quite adamant that they should see him, the call was a warning that they are on their way.” He knew of Norway and Iceland’s efforts to defend Sweden and felt guilty for having ignored them. He didn’t really want to face the Nordic countries, but what right had either he or Ivan to refuse them access to Sweden. France knew that nothing on Earth would be capable of keeping him away from his family if he was in their situation. 

Russia, however, didn’t look convinced. “What about Denmark?” 

“Oui, he's coming too- to apologise,” Francis replied glumly, a frown marring his handsome features. Though Berwald had been receptive earlier he doubted what good Mathias's apology could do. He didn't even know if Berwald could hear them right now, or what state of mind he was in. It had the potential for doing more harm than good. He had tried using his empathy again on him, not to delve into his mind but to sense his emotions to see if he was aware of anything, but there wasn't a lot there beyond the residuals he'd felt earlier.

“Nyet.” Ivan declared with finality. “The rest of them, fine- but I will not allow that man into this room, he can wait outside but he comes in here over my dead body.” He was going to defend Sweden no matter what, he decided. The Dane had no right to even be in the same building as Berwald. Whether it was the after-effects of his nightmare making him feel this way, or whatever else, Ivan felt a strong desire to act as Berwald's shield, to protect him successfully where no one else had. 

Francis nodded, knowing that trying to dissuade Ivan from this would be like trying to tell Arthur he couldn’t cook; his stubborn nature was one of the many things he loved about his English other-half. And besides, even if he was going about it the wrong way Ivan was right. At this moment, Berwald was prone and vulnerable, Sweden needed a degree of protection. But that did not necessarily entail isolating the man from the people he was closest to, in fact it would prove very counter-productive when he did wake up. Rather than point this fact out, the Frenchman decided to lighten the mood. 

“Just try not to get us kicked out of the hospital, Ivan? I know we have diplomatic immunity, but I think the staff might have something to say if Mathias became somehow well acquainted with the plumbing equipment.” Even Ivan had to smile at this, Francis’ good-natured banter breaking through the wall of tension that he’d built up. 

“Fine,” he beamed. “I’ll use an IV stand instead.” 

“You are dreadful!” He snickered without malice, feeling the temperature of the room rise a few degrees. 

“Kolkolkol.” Ivan muttered his favourite phrase drily, his tone light and amused. “What time will they get here?”

“About seven, I believe.” Francis stomach gave a fierce grumble. “Mon Dieu, I’m famished. Do you want something to eat?” Ivan realised that he hadn’t eaten since his hurried breakfast earlier that morning. 

“Da, I think there was a restaurant near the entrance. If we go now, we should be back in time for their arrival. I don’t want to risk Daniya getting in here.” He stated firmly. “I don’t want to leave him, though,” he added, looking with worry at Berwald.  

“He will be fine, Ivan. The nurses will check in on him, and we won’t be long. I promise you, he will be alright.” He reassured his friend, touched by the kindness he was displaying. Russia nodded reluctantly and followed France out of the room, unaware of the voiceless calls and pleas being yelled at them.

 

 _“Please don’t leave me!” Berwald desperately cried as loud as he could. “You said you wouldn’t leave me alone- you promised!!” His hearing had come back to him about half-way through France’s and Russia’s conversation, a sign that he was steadily resurfacing, though the voices were somewhat muffled and he had to focus hard to hear what they were saying, and to make sense of it._

_So far that was the only thing to come back though, he still couldn't feel anything and even thinking proved to be difficult at times, it was very tiring. He remembered reading somewhere that this often happened to comatose people, they would resurface and become cognisant and able to listen to what was happening around them, but it was not always a sign of an imminent reawakening. Sometimes people would be stuck like this for weeks, sometimes longer, before they became conscious once more._

_Berwald felt a sudden regret flood his mind, he didn’t want to exist like this for an extended period of time. A small and bitter part of him blamed Francis- if he hadn’t have broken through to him the way he did, Berwald would still be unaware, utterly oblivious to everything like he wanted. An even smaller part registered how selfish this sounded, a quiet voice which told him “If he hadn’t have done that, you would be stuck and all alone. You would have had to have come back sooner or later, Francis simply sped it up.” He sighed internally, a confusing mass of emotions swirling through his brain._

_“I don’t want them to see me,” he said to himself, feeling self-conscious and vulnerable. “I don’t want them to come near me, not Mathias, or even Tino.” He could have expected that behaviour from Denmark, to beat him while he was already down, but the abandonment from Finland was something he couldn’t fathom. He felt betrayed in so many ways._

_How, after all those years of him looking after the one he loved and cared for the most, could Tino stand by and let the other nations tear him to pieces? He knew his love was unrequited and he accepted that, satisfying himself that he would do everything he could to be a good friend and companion to Finland. Even when he wanted to leave and become independent, Sweden let Finland go without a second thought, knowing that if he fought for him to stay he would lose his closest friend forever. And he owed it to him, he knew. But then Finland left him once more, had run from the room in embarrassment without even realising what was happening and without sparing Berwald a single thought, as if Berwald was nothing, meant nothing, to him. Maybe he deserved it._

_Of all people though, Russia had spared him a thought, had become involved and wanted to help and protect him. Why? And France, too. He didn't understand their presence, though he definitely wanted it, despite that._

_Russia hadn't been one of the Nations who'd slandered him, though he wasn't there. France had, sort of, but he had apologised for it and Berwald understood. Perhaps the Frenchman just felt guilty._

_Would Russia have joined in if he had been there? Would he have called him disgusting and evil like the rest of them, or not? Those were questions he'd never get answers to now, but he asked them all the same. He had nothing else to do here but think, more was the pity. I_ _t wasn't as if Berwald could to anything to change matters, he'd just accept them as they were until later._

_Berwald was disturbed out of his reverie by the sound of a door opening, unaware of how much time had passed._

__“_ France?” He asked, fully aware of how pointless it was to do so.   _

__“_ Hm, they must have gone to eat or something,” _a deep and Germanic voice rang out clearly.__

_"No”, he thought. “No, no you’re early, you’re not supposed to be here yet!” He panicked- Russia and France weren’t there to protect him. “Oh God,” he groaned, as he heard people walk into the room. His family surrounded him, but Sweden felt more isolated and alone than ever._

_“I would tell you that you can only stay for twenty minutes, but apparently the government thinks they know healthcare better than doctors and nurses _.” A Russian accented voice harrumphed to the room. “_ I will be back to check on him in thirty minutes, I would appreciate if you don’t make a fuss- calmness is key for the recovery _.” She instructed, and Berwald added mentally “It’s a bit late for that now” as the door closed once more.__

_No one spoke for a while, and just as it was becoming unbearable for Berwald, he heard a small gasp and a sob._

_“_ Oh, Su-san _,” a familiar voice whispered, and the recognition of the voice’s owner made Sweden’s heart clench._

_“Tino.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> French "Allemagne" = "Germany"; "Imbécile" = "Imbecile" (pretty darn obvious innit?); "Désolée" = "Sorry" And now you, too, can travel to Germany from France, insult a German person and then apologise, all in French. 
> 
> One of my talents is that I can swear like a trooper in French, like it's the one I'm most fluent in being rude in, as well as Welsh, Swedish, Norwegian, Finnish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Farsi and Spanish (in varying degrees of both proficiency and rudeness.) I can also sing songs in Swedish, German, French, Italian, Romanian (Curse you, O-Zone!), and Japanese (Curse you, Hima!) and a small part of the national anthem of the former USSR. I can't remember what I did yesterday, but that's fine, not a problem... nope. 
> 
> Also, Duolingo's latest Swedish Gem I was presented with: "Nittiotalet ringde och ville ha tillbaka sin skjorta" = "The nineties called and wanted its shirt back". *Slow claps*


	9. Fragile

The five Nations stood at the foot of the hospital bed and stared at Sweden. He looked so much smaller lying there swaddled in blankets with breathing equipment obscuring the lower half of his face. The steady beep of the heart monitor reassured them that Berwald was really alive, he looked half-dead, one foot in the grave.  

Denmark felt like he was going to throw up again and wrung his hands silently. Beside him, Norway and Iceland allowed their impassive masks to slip, sorrowful emotions shining from the depths of their usually dull eyes while Germany stood behind them, not wanting to intrude too much. It was Tino who broke the silence, finally finding his voice. How had this happened? 

“Oh, Su-san,” he whispered Berwald’s old nickname softly, walking forward towards his friend. Finland wanted desperately to hold his hand but couldn’t bring himself to touch him, as if Sweden could break from the contact. The unthinkable had happened. Years of history passed before his eyes with every step he took- battles, peacetime, his life in Sweden's house, under his protective wings. Feeling claustrophobic under his care and wanting to break free, their goodbyes until Sweden once again came to his aid in the Winter War.

He was not happy with Russia's involvement, not at all. But he couldn't bring himself to fight it right now, he felt too responsible, too guilty to tell Ivan where he could stick his input. At least, he supposed defeatedly, France was there too, acting as a buffer and a competent influence. After what felt like an eternity, he reached Berwald's side. Now closer, the bandages and bruises around his eyes and lips were more visible, adding to the already corpse-like appearance. Sweden didn't deserve this, not at all. In spite of his looks and his fierceness on the battlefield Tino knew how kind and compassionate he was, he had a lot to give and had given so much to him- whether it was wanted or not. Abandoning him to the wolves was no way to repay him for that, it was selfish and stupid. He'd just been so embarrassed! To have Estonia voice his thoughts and feelings spanning back centuries, they weren't even true of how he thought of Sweden now, not one bit! It was like he'd slapped him across the face, in fact that would have been less embarrassing.

Tino had a lot to apologise for, not as much as Estonia, in one way, and for far more in another.

The Finn took a steadying breath before speaking to him. It was like there was no one else in the room apart from them, and he dearly hoped Berwald could hear him. The whole day, Tino had been beside himself with grief at what had happened; what Eduard had done, what Berwald had done, what he had done, repeating _ad infinitum ad nauseum_. 

“Oh, Ber," he sniffed back the tears threatening to fall. He didn't have the right to cry, he told himself, not now. "I’m so, so sorry I didn’t speak up for you. I should have- I should have done so much more. You always did so much for me, and I didn't... I didn't do anything. You're one of my closest friends, and I... I never should have left you like that. If you can hear me, please know how much I regret leaving you like that.” Tino's voice became rough as his throat tightened with emotion, but he meant every word sincerely. Tino had just wanted to run away, out of nothing but sheer embarrassment that his old fears and strained relationship had been aired like dirty laundry.  He told Estonia of his “captivity” in Sweden’s house, how they shared a bed, and the fear that the man’s forbidding countenance had instilled in him, and Eduard had used it as a weapon against him.

Tino knew how hurt Berwald would be to learn that that was how he’d felt all those years ago, and that was the main thing that had made him run. It was all just one massive mistake. The thought made his heart heavy. Tino reached his hand out and lightly brushed his fingers against Berwald’s hair, a belated attempt at comfort, before leaning in and placing a feather-light kiss to his temple. The coolness of his skin startled him- Sweden was always so warm.

The man who’d rescued him all those decades ago from Denmark's house had nearly died, he’d really tried to end himself. Finland finally broke down, his forehead meeting Sweden’s, the coldness he felt having brought home the reality of the situation. 

What if Berwald never came back?

“Please come back, I’m so sorry!” He sobbed fully and let his arm reach across Berwald’s chest to embrace him, feeling the familiar ache in his heart as he curled his fingers underneath Berwald’s shoulder. The smell of death and disinfectant was strong, but it couldn’t quite overpower the scents of wood, snow and the particular aroma that only belonged to Sweden. Finland drank it in as he cuddled the unyielding form, carefully so as not to jostle his injuries. It did nothing to calm him now as it would have done so in the past. He stayed in that position for a couple of minutes, tears sprinkling down onto Berwald’s cheek until Tino felt two pairs of hands gently pull him away from the bedside. 

In a rare outward display of empathy, Iceland took Finland in arms to comfort him, stroking his hair and back to soothe him while Mr Puffin nestled himself into Finland’s neck, soft feathers brushing against sensitive skin. Norway stroked Tino’s arms while shooting a glare at Denmark. The look in his eyes screamed several unrepeatable curses at his Danish boyfriend, silently commanding him to man up and apologise. Denmark had taken it far too far earlier, though Norway knew that it was by no means the strongest factor at play. 

" _Apologise, you fool._ " He could almost hear Lukas' even tone bubbling in his ears.

Mathias looked at the floor and took a deep breath in, uncertainty weighing heavy on his troubled frame. He walked towards Berwald and wondered if he could hear what was being said, if he knew what was going on around him.

The man did. He was excruciatingly aware, and he hated it.

 

_Tino’s heartfelt apology was painful to hear. He wanted with all his being to forgive him and made a promise to himself that he would in time, but right now it still hurt too much. Berwald was crying himself; Tino had told Estonia what he really felt about their time together and it broke his heart. It felt alien and strange to cry with no tears or physical display, just him sobbing on the inside and wishing he could wake up and let it all out properly like Tino was doing, loud sobs heaving out right next to his left ear before the sound moved further away. He hoped that either Norway or Iceland were comforting him._

_He wanted someone to comfort him, too, but knew that that was an impossibility._

_After a few moments of quiet, footsteps were approaching him once more, and he would recognise the pattern anywhere. Denmark. A sudden and unexpected fury welled up from within him and Berwald started to scream inside his mind._

_“NEJ! Jag vill inte ha dig h_ _är! Jag vill inte att du ska prata med mig! DU gjorde detta! JAG HATAR DIG! LÄMNA MIG IFRED!_ _!" He screamed at Mathias, but to his dismay nothing came out, no sounds at all; the only thing that happened was a small twitch of Berwald’s right index finger that he was unaware of and that wasn’t observable from beneath the blankets._

_To Berwald's surprise the small voice from earlier returned, but it was darker and more bitter than before, hatred and loathing giving a vicious edge to the words it spoke. Something about the voice was appallingly familiar to Sweden, but he couldn’t work out why. As it spoke to him, Berwald felt a chill colder than anything he'd ever known envelop him._

_“No, Berwald." The voice whispered. "YOU did this to yourself. You chose this, it's nothing more than you deserve, this torment. You strung yourself up in a grotty little bathroom with your own necktie. Mathias didn’t do that. YOU did.”_

 

“Hej, Ber,” Mathias whispered and cleared his throat to speak properly.  

“Um.” He paused, unsure of where, or even how, to begin. In all their years, across all the defeats and victories between them, Denmark had never seen Sweden in such a vulnerable state. Mathias took a deep and grounding breath in. He’d realised his wrongdoing hours before and the guilt was tearing him up inside. He knew he should have gone after him, knew that the accusation from Estonia had been a gross falsehood. Mathias had tried to speak up then, but found his voice lost in the cacophony. He hated how helpless Berwald had looked before he ran away. What Mathias did was cowardly, the act of a shameless bully.

The Dane wasn't like that, he was better than that, or so he'd thought. He, of all people, knew how much it hurt when people thought so little of you, hurt you, and had worked hard to overcome it. Maybe, he thought, maybe that was why he'd done that- so that Berwald could hurt as much as he did sometimes. Denmark could almost hear Norway calling him 'pathetic'.

“Berwald, I can’t apologise enough for what happened earlier, for what we did to you and what we said, for bringing up your past like that. I let you down." The heart monitors steady beeping continued calmly, and Mathias willed himself to be calm too as it reminded him how, underneath their Nationhoods, they were human beings. Fragile and breakable human beings.

"You’re not a monster, not at all. I’m so sorry that we hurt you so much that you... well." He couldn't say the words, they felt dirty on his tongue. "When you wake up, I promise we’ll do whatever we can to support you and it will be better. I promise, it'll be better.” Mathias finished with a big sniff and tousled Sweden’s choppy blonde hair with his hand, feeling just a tiny bit cleaner than he felt earlier.  "Jeg er ked af det, lillebror," he murmured softly.

Their shared history had been a messy one, but the one constant factor had been how strong Sweden was, both as a nation and as a man. For him to be so broken was unfathomable but obviously a breaking point had been reached; everyone has their limits and for Berwald today was it.

Denmark moved his hand down to stroke his thumb across Sweden’s cheek, remembering the times when they were children, innocent and free, and Denmark had comforted him in the same way. He hated the fact that he’d played a part in this, not as much as Estonia, but still significant. The very thought of the Baltic nation sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. 

The door opened behind him. 

“Get your filthy hand off Shvetsiya this instant,” a furious voice hissed at him. Mathias turned and removed his hand, shocked by the intrusion.

“Russia, I-“ He started to explain but Ivan cut him off. The expression on the Russian man’s face grew darker; he wanted the Dane away from Sweden, away from his charge. Russia took a step forward, the air around him chilling and his voice carrying a powerful undercurrent, demanding obedience. 

“Nyet. You do not touch him. I want you to leave now, right now, do you understand me, Daniya? **You do not belong here**.” Russia’s eyes glittered dangerously and Germany, who had been stood still at the back of the room, so as to not intrude, moved in between the pair before someone could get hurt. It was like stepping in between a rabid bear and a wolf.  

“He is my brother, I’ve every right to be here. You, however…” How dare this røv interfere with his family, who the hell did Ivan think he was?! Mathias opened his mouth to unleash his tirade, a storm boiling within him, but was interrupted once more. 

“Da, and what a great brother you are, hm? A pinnacle of family love.” Contempt dripped from every work like poison, and Mathias stiffened with rage. He stepped forward, raising his fist to strike when Germany held them both back. 

“This is not the place. If you want to fight, gentlemen, take it outside.” They stared through Germany like he wasn’t there. “Please, for Sweden’s sake- take this out of the room.” Ludwig implored them and, very reluctantly, they moved outside, glaring at each other icily- in fact Germany noted the temperature in the room had plummeted by several degrees by the time they left. Francis quickly closed the door after them, not wishing to hear what might happen if they didn’t talk civilly. At least there were doctors on standby if things got ugly.

“Have they given an indication of whether he will wake soon?” Germany asked on behalf of the remaining Nordics as warmth started to return, needing to dissolve the tension. 

“He will, I am sure of it,” France stated, steadfast and assertive. 

“How can you be so positive?” Norway spoke for the first time since leaving the car. He suspected he knew, but wanted to hear what Francis had to say. Lukas had been planning on attempting reaching Berwald at some point, but it made no real difference if France had gotten there before him, in fact with the Frenchman's empathy it would have been more effective.

“I connected briefly with his consciousness, or rather what little there is of it at the moment. Berwald is still there, I know it. He responded to me, in a way. I am certain it broke through to him.”

Norway considered this for a moment, but knew from experience that the awakening could take ages- it all depended on the state of Berwald's mind; Francis might have reached him, but it all relied on Berwald himself. If he didn't want to come back then he might never resurface. “I wish I could share your confidence,” he murmured blandly, though inside he was reeling. In the meeting Norway hadn’t spoken up for Sweden because he had thought that he didn’t need to, that the man would defend himself adequately. When it came to what Estonia said, he had tried to make himself heard, knowing for a fact that Berwald would never, could never, do such a thing, but both his voice and Iceland’s had been drowned out.  

If he’d have thought for one moment that his brother-in-arms was a risk to himself, he would have gone after him and brought him back down, stopped him from hurting himself. But it was too late for that now. “What is the prognosis if he does wake up? Could he be brain damaged?” A very real and worrying possibility.

France frowned and looked at Berwald as if he himself could give the answer. “They don’t know, and until he wakes we won’t find out. I spoke to one of the nurses though, apparently his vocal chords were badly damaged by the hanging and the tracheotomy. They should repair themselves, but he could find speaking difficult for a while.” Norway gave a small nod, and Finland started to cry again.

Even Iceland looked heartbroken for his fallen family member. Sweden never crowded him, he left him alone when he needed it and offered an ear when Emil wanted it. He treated him like an adult and respected him and his boundaries. It upset him deeply what had happened- Berwald had been a stabilising influence. What would they do now?

Germany fiddled with his gloves. He was supposed to be the one who kept order, who stopped the fighting when it broke out, keeping things as polite and civilised as he could. So why didn’t he stop this?

France sensed the turmoil in the younger nation’s form. “What are you thinking, Ludwig?” He asked quietly. Germany bit his lip and looked at the floor.

“I should have stopped them. I wanted to, but it happened so quickly, I couldn’t understand it. And when Estonia accused him of… well…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“But it’s not true,” Finland wept. “Berwald never did anything like that!” It was horrid that anyone thought it possible. 

“Ja, we know that now. But in the heat of the moment…” He shook his head. “I should have done a lot more, and for that I will wholeheartedly apologise.”

The door opened once more, and Russia walked back in the room with Denmark, surprisingly not a scratch was on them. The Nordic and Slavic nations had talked it out in the corridor, reaching a tenuous agreement but neither looked particularly happy about it; there had been a great deal of threats and name calling, but eventually Ivan had been satisfied with Mathias’s sincere apologies and agreed to let him remain. The Danish man had yet to be convinced of Russia’s involvement, but he wasn’t prepared to fight about it, not for the time being at least.

The Nordics and Germany stayed a while longer with France and Russia, and talked about Sweden’s future, the possibility of therapy and ongoing treatment until the topic reached is natural end. Sweden would have to be carefully monitored during his recovery and if they had to physically drag him to therapy then they would. It was nearly 9pm before they’d finished and bid Francis and Ivan goodnight. 

The two nations decided that they would sleep the night at Sweden’s bedside, and would go to Ivan’s home via France’s hotel tomorrow morning to get ready for the second part of the conference. Neither really wanted to leave Sweden alone, but needs must. They would be back afterwards, and Russia would again sleep in the hospital with him. The doctors planned to move him into the private room where, mercifully, there would be a bed to sleep on. It was all planned out.

Sweden had been listening to all this very attentively.

 

 _Despite the frightening revelation of his own blame for this situation Berwald felt mightily relieved that people knew he hadn’t forced himself on Tino, that was the main thing he couldn’t stand- the idea that people thought he could have been so vile and horrid. The remark about him not participating in the Second World War had hurt him greatly, too- he wanted to help the Allies, but he also wanted to help Finland. His government decided neutrality for him, though he sent volunteers and equipment. He’d hated himself for it, but his hands were tied- a Nation’s duty is to their country, they have to serve them._

_Denmark’s apology was not what he had expected, and as with Tino’s and Ludwig’s, he wanted to forgive but it would take a little time. It was not in Berwald’s nature to bear grudges, the effort was exhausting. If he was honest, he both did and didn’t want their apologies; half of him was rather embarrassed to be on the receiving end of people telling him they were sorry, and another part greatly appreciated it and the comfort it brought him, to know that maybe things would be ok again. It brightened his outlook considerably._

_He didn’t know if the other Nation’s would apologise and truthfully, he didn’t mind either way, it couldn’t reasonably be expected of them to do so and he didn’t want to become the focus of their attentions- he wasn’t deserving of it. After all, he’d fought with most of them over the course of his long life, done despicable things. Such was a Nation’s existence._

_What Francis had had to say was very interesting too- Berwald didn’t_ feel _brain damaged, but there was something…_ off _. He couldn’t tell what but he knew himself well enough to know that something, somewhere, was missing, broken. He would just have to wait and see what it was._

 _Finally, Sweden felt more than slightly annoyed that the others seemed to have set out the plans for rehabilitation for him and, if he remembered this when he woke up, he would make it clear that he didn’t want others making decisions for him, and he certainly didn’t need nannying._

_“I’m over a millennium old, I’m not an infant,” he stated moodily._   _He could take care of himself._

_As the other sounds in the room quieted, Berwald was lulled into slumber once more by the sounds of someone snoring like a tractor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swedish: “NEJ! Jag vill inte ha dig här! Jag vill inte att du ska prata med mig! DU gjorde detta! JAG HATAR DIG! LÄMNA MIG IFRED!!"= "NO! I don't want you here! I don't want you to talk to me! YOU did this! I HATE YOU! LEAVE ME ALONE!!"  
> Danish: "Jeg er ked af det, lillebror"= "I'm sorry, little brother." "røv"= asshole/arsehole I think (I'm sorry, I know I'm biased but arsehole sounds better than asshole)
> 
> I headcanon that, like Norway and Iceland are brothers, Sweden is Denmark's younger brother, but that their relationship is very different to Iceland's and Norway's.
> 
> Edit 1st July: thank you to cutoutscout for the translation correction in my Swedish 
> 
> Also, did anyone else watch "One foot in the grave"? It was a sitcom with Richard Wilson and Annette Crosbie- Victor Meldrew is my spirit animal XD not my fave sitcom from that era of the BBC, I prefer things like Blackadder, Red Dwarf, Dad's Army and the like. And murder mysteries- I was practically brought up on Diagnosis Murder, Murder She Wrote, Midsummer Murders and I adore the Father Brown Mysteries (Inspector Mallory is a bigger tsundere than Romano- fite me). 
> 
> Anyway, until the next time! I think I'm going to set a weekly update schedule to give me the chance to write this properly :)


	10. Condemned

Russia and France awoke at 6am to make sure they’d have time to shower, change and grab breakfast before facing the conference. To say they weren’t looking forward to it was an understatement but it was necessary, their duties as Nations couldn’t be abandoned. But what would the general mood be, France pondered? Would everything carry on as normal with everyone pretending what happened hadn't happened, or not?

In one way the incident was incredibly contained, insofar as only the Nation's and respective Government's knew about it, but by now  _all_ of the Nations knew about Sweden's attempted suicide, even those not present at the meeting. There was no real rumour mill as such because it seemed so very cut and dry, so simple when it was anything but, as France now knew.

Since a country's health and wellbeing was directly tied to the personification it was no surprise that, as well as the earthquake in the capital, there had been reports of downward trends in both Sweden's economy and stock market, as well as an increase in what could be termed "civil uneasiness". The general population of Sweden seemed to feel a sudden and collective sadness, not quite a depression but it was as if they knew that something had gone terribly wrong and they were all feeling a loss.

Francis was both distracted from his ruminations and terrified by the sight of Ivan’s “baby” tank as soon as he clapped eyes on it, remembering the infamous “Armata Incident” very clearly. The way he drove it nearly made Francis weep, but he remained silent- he was too busy praying frantically to each and every deity he could think of to allow him a speedy deliverance from death-by-Russia.

Ivan, meanwhile, couldn’t understand why Francis looked so relieved as soon as he touched solid earth; he was a good driver- no one died! It all seemed a little over dramatic, the way the Frenchman had “EEP-ed!” every single time he accelerated or slammed on the brakes when people didn’t get out of his way fast enough. "Come on," he nudged Francis' shoulder, "I'm not as bad as Italy!"

France had to agree with him there; a drive with either Veniziano or Romano was an experience you were not likely to survive intact- in either body or soul.

When they reached the conference hall the mood was dour and for once the meeting went smoothly with no fights breaking out. Guilty glances were aimed at the empty chair were Sweden had sat yesterday, an uncomfortable reminder, and by the end of it both Finland and Estonia just wanted to leave. Denmark, Turkey and Switzerland received similar treatment, but Eduard particularly was on the receiving end of some unpleasant glares. When the meeting did finally come to an end, Germany had insisted that people be given a brief run-down of Sweden’s condition before anyone could beat a hasty retreat.

“Sweden is in a coma, mes amis, and we won’t know the extent of the damage- if there is any- until he wakes up. But I am certain he will. Someone will need to act as his stand in until he is ready to come back to meetings, but we have no idea how long that might take.” Finland stuck his hand up at this and volunteered himself, wanting to help as much as possible. “Merci, Tino. I don’t really think anything else needs to be said, really. Russie had it covered pretty well yesterday.” He added quietly and sat down once more. 

“Ja. Danke, France. I call this meeting to a close, you are all dismissed until the next meeting in two months time in January, in…” he paused to check his diary. “Ah. Stockholm.” Ludwig’s handsome features were marred by a frown. “Maybe we should swap the location- would anyone else be willing to host?” Meetings were usually monthly, but with Christmas in the next month there was no meeting, just a party that, this time, Germany was hosting. Russia spoke up.

“Nyet, the meeting should still take place in Stockholm. Sweden should hopefully be awake by then, he might not be able to attend, but I’m sure he will have already made provisions. Finland, you can handle this, da?” Tino nodded in affirmative, he could almost guarantee that Berwald would have already gotten things organised, it was his nature to plan and be prepared. 

Tino didn't like Russia's assumption that Finland would organise the conference as well as acting as Sweden's representation by proxy. But, he realised, if he did this then Russia would have no foothold with Sweden, or at least that any influence would be negligible. Finland was not about to afford his former enemy such an advantage as direct interaction with the Swedish Government on matters pertaining to Berwald. Germany was another thing, the self-appointed manager of the nations would have no designs on a possible power grab, but Ivan was dangerous. Lethal, as he knew from bitter experience.

“Well if that’s sorted, you may all leave.” Germany declared tiredly; truth be told he hadn’t slept well the previous night; he kept seeing Sweden on the bathroom floor being revived, the awful hollow quality his eyes held made him shudder every time he thought of them, the injuries too. Truthfully he had seen much worse, but something about it stayed with Ludwig, and it was not helped by the visit to the hospital either, all the instruments and machines. Even Italy couldn’t settle him, try as he did to hold and soothe him with soft words, Ludwig was not coping well with the incident, holding himself at least a little responsible. Under the table, their hands linked and Feliciano gave Ludwig's hand a reassuring gentle squeeze, getting ready to leave.

“Wait,” a voice spoke out before the Nations could gather their things and depart. All eyes looked to the source, Austria. Beneath his glasses his gaze was inscrutable, his fine features serious. “I would like to make it known that I disagree entirely with the notion that we are being forced to make apologies to Sweden. While what happened yesterday was regretful, I feel it unnecessary that we should all apologise when it was Estonia, Denmark, Turkey and Switzerland who were the main guilty parties. Why should we, we only reacted to what they said. It was a mistake, yes, but a mistake primarily of Estonia’s making. We can't be held accountable for Sweden's actions, we did not force him to try and kill himself. He put his own Nation at risk, for God's sake- his own people, his kingdom! It was an act selfishness and stupidity on his part and I have nothing to say to him.” 

Several other Nations nodded and murmured their agreements with the Austrian personification. He’d put into words the sentiment that had been shared when the dust had settled and minds cleared outside of the meeting and away from Russia’s fury. This sentiment was not shared by all, however- a handful of others who had, for one reason or another, taken a similar path to Sweden. When you're in a place as dark as that, even the things you cherish the most can't dissuade you from wanting to put an end to things. Moreover, the ties to his land were definitely intact- whether that was deliberate or not was debatable, and they would have to wait and find out- and that was all that mattered for now.

Russia took a few moments to glare at the man before attempting to speak, but was beaten to the punch by France. Having shared the man’s pain through empathic connection, France would not brook Austria’s stance of ignorance. How dare he be so vile, so shameless, so willing to pass off the blame?! The very fact he put his Nationhood at risk should have told them just how serious this was! It was not an act of stupidity, it was the act of a man who had no hope and felt worthless, completely so.

“Did you, or did you not, become involved yesterday in the screaming match that ensued when Estonia accused Sweden of holding Finland captive and forcing him to sleep with him, among other things?” Francis’ voice was quiet, he didn’t need to shout to make it well known how disgusted he felt, the tone conveyed everything. He saw Austria visibly shrink in his seat. “Did you somehow evaporate into thin air while everyone else was shaming, _condemning_ , one of our own kind to the extent that he felt the only solution was to hang himself in a bathroom?”

“Well yes, but-“ Francis’ voice turned pitch black as he cut Roderich off, slamming his hand down on the table.

“Then you _will_ apologise. I hold myself as accountable as the rest of you. You have no idea what we did to him. The disgrace we caused, the hurt, all of it! I felt it all! Of course he deserves an apology, it’s the least he deserves! It wasn’t just Estonia, it was all of us against Sweden! What part of this are you finding so difficult to grasp, Roderich?!” France’s shouts silenced the room and Austria’s face had turned puce with embarrassment. “If I hear one more word said about this, any ounce of recalcitrance and you won't know what’ll hit you. Understand? And don't you _dare_ call Berwald stupid or selfish, L'Autriche, otherwise you'll find yourself in the uncomfortable position of being jammed into your own piano.” 

The reluctant nations nodded mutely their surrender, unwilling to risk further angering the Frenchman. Russia found himself both surprised and impressed by the fervour with which France had defended Sweden, and was grateful once more to have the Gallic man as his ally. 

Germany anxiously cleared his throat, the tension in the room palpable and suffocating. “I think we understand, Francis. Berwald will receive out fullest apologies.” Ludwig’s voice was surprisingly meek as he spoke and he didn’t want to stay a moment longer. “The meeting is closed, I suggest we all leave.”

France and Russia left first to go back to their respective hotel rooms before returning to the hospital. The anger had still not entirely left France yet, that Austria could be so self-absorbed and ignorant. What effort would it take to write a simple "I'm sorry" in a card and post it? Five minutes of their time, maybe less, to even appear like they cared. It was not as if they were asking them to shower him with gifts or to give their apologies face-to-face, but still they had refused on the principal of "bystanders are not guilty". It was ridiculous, a farce. 

They walked away from the room quickly, but Canada and England quickly caught up to them. Arthur, particularly, was beside himself with worry for Francis. Neither of them had heard anything from the Frenchman since he left in the ambulance with Berwald, and the last time Canada had seen his father was when they'd finally brought Sweden back. Matthew had dearly wanted to talk to his father's together about what they'd been through, but as he saw the anger in France's posture, the strain in his shoulder's, he sensed that now was not the time.

“Francis, love, please stop.” Arthur’s voice was gentle as he tried to get his partner’s attention. It worked, but Arthur’s mouth went dry at the expression on Francis’ face. He looked so unbearably stressed and upset, it brought back memories that England hated being reminded of, of wars and struggles that belonged in another life. Parts of this situation hit very close to home for the two nations- a lot had been shared between them over their long lives, and together they helped each other overcome it all, even when they were at war.

England stepped forward and took France into his arms, stroking his back and whispering to him calming words in French, knowing how Francis always loved it when the other spoke to him in his own language. It was the language that they used the majority of the time, Arthur's way of letting the other know how he truly felt with out any possibility of being misunderstood, even though Francis was fluent in English. It was a beautiful language.

Though he knew it was unintentional, France had let his control on his powers slip just enough for England to feel what his love was going through. It stung him deeply that Francis was suffering so. Arthur knew he couldn't let him go back to the hospital in this state, he needed a rest, needed a rest and some TLC. “Let’s go back to our room for a while, mon belle. You need a break, hm?” He laid a soft kiss into Francis’ hair and felt him melt into the embrace. “Matthew will go to Berwald, and Ivan can have a break too. Let me take care of you, please?” 

Francis nodded his agreement, not willing to talk at present. He needed Arthur right now, needed just to be held and loved by the one he loved most, and to be supported instead of supporting. 

Canada told Russia of his intentions to spend some time with Sweden at the hospital by himself to give him and France some respite, reiterating that England would spend some time with France and bring him back down while Russia could take some time away to collect himself. Ivan felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He knew he could trust Matthew, too. They got along together very well, better than Ivan did with Matthew's brother, though relations with Alfred on both a personal and national level had been improving of late. Canada was more sensible, more quiet and restrained than America, and there was never any degree of competition between him and Russia- apart from when it came to ice hockey.

“That is most kind of you, Matvey. _Spasiba_.” A small but tired smile turned up the corners of Ivan’s mouth, though it grew melancholy when he saw England gently lead France away and back to their hotel.

Canada and Russia parted ways and France felt nothing but relief when they reached England’s car to make the short journey back to their room. When they got inside Francis had done exactly what Arthur knew he would; in the quiet of the room, in the reassuring presence of his lover, Francis let the tears flow until the burden was no more. All the while Arthur had just held him and remained silent, conveying through gentle touches comfort and letting him find his balance. They’d been together so long, lived through so much that they knew each other almost better than they knew themselves.

 


	11. Animal Instincts (One Hell of a Wake up Call)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More notes at the end, but I'm sorry this chapter is a little meh in terms of quality. Not been feeling my best and I'm struggling to fix this part if I'm honest

Back at the hospital, things were going well. Mostly. 

Sweden had been moved from the critical care unit into his private room and some semblance of feeling was starting to return, which would have been fantastic news if it wasn’t for the fact that his torso and neck itched like hell under the dressings and he longed to scratch it for some relief. Berwald desperatley wanted to wake up, he didn’t want to be stuck in limbo for longer than he had to be. Being trapped like this was worse than he realised it would be, even whatever was waiting for him when he woke up was better than this, imprisoned in his own mind. The trouble was that Berwald knew it wasn’t time yet, that neither his mind nor body were in the right order to be awake again, he was still healing physically and the mental wounds still wept. However, this didn’t stop him from trying to move his fingers and toes, in spite of the fact that he couldn’t feel if they were twitching or not; it occupied him, distracted him from all the things he knew but didn't wish to acknowledge.

He was not alone in the darkness, it seemed. There was a certain dissonance, some connection inside Berwald’s fractured mind which had yet to be re-established, and truthfully there was something highly unstable about it. It felt so familiar to him, but not in any positive way, like something in him was straining to break free. Something dangerous that needed to be subdued, held tight and restrained. Staying asleep was the safest option, for him and everyone else.

Everything that had happened since he first resurfaced he could remember and Berwald went over it all again so he’d remember when he woke up- not wanting to forget the apologies and what Russia and France had done for him. There were also a few apologies he needed to make himself, he decided, namely to Ivan and Francis for the trouble they’d had to go to, and to his family for putting them through the mill with this. Even though it had been what he wanted, Berwald could not deny the inherent selfishness of trying to kill himself and leaving others to deal with the fall-out.

A sigh echoed in the expanse, it was all his fault and he'd risked everything. This wasn't what he should be, Berwald was better than this, Sweden was stronger than this. His country relied on him and him alone, and he could have killed them all with his actions. What would his Prime Minister think, his  _king_ and the other royals? 

He could have lost it all because of his cowardice.

After a while of trying to move his digits again, Berwald gave up and went back to sleep after the duty nurse had come in to check on him, at least if he slept he wouldn’t be bored out of his mind. It could have been minutes or hours later when the sound of a door opening woke him again and he heard soft footsteps approach the bed. A light hand ghosted across his shoulder and patted it gently, and he felt something plop onto the bed by his hand. It must have been an animal because it licked his palm, disconcerting Berwald greatly. 

" _Vad i helvete var det där?"_

“Hi there, Sweden,” a quiet and airy voice spoke out. The kind voice was so familiar, reassuring him despite the fact he could feel something pawing his thigh, a little too close to what some nation's termed the "vital regions" for comfort.

“ _Who on Earth is that? What is going on?”_ Berwald thought. Was he dreaming again, or maybe the medications he was being given were causing him to hallucinate. The soft voice responded to his silent query.  

“It’s Canada, Matthew. I brought Kumajirou with me too, I hope you don’t mind.” Canada patted the bear on the head and stroked the fur behind his ears, watching in amusement as his pet became fascinated with Sweden’s hand. He wondered if it was a “winter nation” thing, but his polar bear seemed drawn to cold lands such as himself and Russia, and now the Nordic. Matthew gave a smile at how cute the bear looked.

“ _Ohh. Vinland, of course. And his pet polar bear”._ Relief washed over Sweden, until the little bear started to lightly nibble his thumb, its fur and whiskers tickling his fingers. _“Why me?”_ Berwald inwardly groaned in frustration at the sensation. At least he had company he supposed. 

“Pere and Russia will be here in a while, but I wanted to come and sit with you. I don’t know if you want to know, but it was me who found you.” Matthew felt the need to get this off his chest, finding that speaking about things such as this helped. He’d had a dreadful nightmare the night before and relived finding Berwald hanging by his tie.He shuddered to think of it, focusing instead on watching the man's chest rise and fall and the gentle sounds of breathing. Sweden was still alive and that was all that mattered.

 _“_ _What?”_ Sweden was startled by this information and grew more concerned as Canada continued speaking. “Belarus cut you down, and Russia called the ambulance while papa and I gave you CPR.” The Canadian man paused in thought, staring at Sweden’s bandaged chest. “I’m sorry we broke your ribs, but there’s really no avoiding it.” 

_“No, I’m so sorry, Matthew_.” And Berwald was truly sorry- Matthew didn’t deserve to see something like that, he was such a nice and kindly nation and he felt terrible for it. The little bear snuffed his palm, the cool snout fluttering against his skin was almost unbearable, but it was successful in distracting him from the heartache he felt.  

“I’m just stalling, I’m sorry.” The tone in Canada’s voice became heavier, a light sigh drifting across Berwald's cheek, cooling his skin. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened. What was said to you was dreadful, and I’m sorry for staying quiet like that. Not that many would have paid attention anyway…” _True, unfortunately_. “… but that’s not the point. I’m sorry, Berwald.”

 _“I’m starting to feel bad that so many people are apologising to me.” He sighed, declaring to himself, “I’m going to have to apologise when I wake up."_  

Canada continued to stare at Sweden awkwardly for a few moments. France had told him of the likelihood that the he could hear the world around him, and he hoped that was the case. Some of the Nations at the conference had objected to being made to apologise to Sweden, and in one way they had a point, but in another it was shameful that they had libelled one of their own kind so completely that he felt driven to death as an escape. The new millennium had meant to signify the beginnings of world peace. The stubborn strand of hair lightly brushed his nose as he shook his head. It wasn't right.   

Matthew sat down and took his phone out to wait for Ivan and Francis. For about an hour or so he went through his emails, his stocks and his briefings before turning away from his country work. He checked his messages and found texts from his brother asking him where he was. He replied quickly, not wanting him to worry. He knew Arthur was busy tending to Francis at the moment, but had mentioned offhand dropping in to see Berwald at some point before he left, but it depended on his schedule.  

Alfred, meanwhile, outright refused to come to the hospital, but Matthew understood it wasn’t a personal thing, that his American twin couldn’t bear to be in hospitals, even to visit and, moreover, Matthew knew that seeing Berwald being taken away like that had reminded him of his childhood friend, Davie. It would break his heart to see Sweden like this, to be so vividly reminded of the friend he’d lost. Especially since Sweden, and Finland, had been amongst the first to find America when he was still a child.

Sensing the sadness in his owner, Kumajirou looked up from the interesting appendage for a moment, observing him. He detected that being left alone for a few minutes would do Matthew good, and went back to playing with Sweden’s wrist, nuzzling and licking his pulse point.  

Unfortunately for Berwald, this was a particularly sensitive spot. His index finger and thumb twitched in reflex, frightening the bear who reacted on instinct alone. 

He bit Sweden’s finger- hard.

“Kumakika, no!” Canada gasped when he noticed the sudden movement.  

 _“FAN!” Berwald yelped as the small bear’s jaws clamped onto his finger, pain radiating through his hand as the bite hit bone._  

Suddenly, Berwald no longer felt heavy in his body but breathless, frighteningly so. He tried to take a deep breath in but was prevented by the ventilator jammed down his trachea. Panicked, he snapped open his eyes; the brightness hurt and he couldn’t see properly! The bear was still firmly attached to his digit, digging his sharp little teeth into the flesh and shaking his head.  

“Nngg!” he groaned out painfully, his throat burning, and tried to move his hand away. What was happening?! Oh Gods, it hurt! 

The bear finally let go and the Canadian man turned to the noise and gasped. “Sweden?”

Berwald didn’t hear him, he was gagging on the breathing tube, choking on the obstruction. He tried to reach his hands up to his throat to move the obstruction, but his muscles were tired. Shock tightened his muscles, shaking uncontrollably and dark spots floating around his vision. Was he dying?!

Canada gawked for a second before registering the abject terror in Sweden’s eyes and he punched the assistance bar above the bed, an alert tone sounding from it. He didn’t know what to do, panic rooting him to the floor. Matthew jerked back in surprise when Sweden’s hand lashed out and latched onto Canada’s arm with a bruising force. All attempts at verbal comfort went out the window.  _Jesus Christ_.  Seconds later a response team moved into the room and Canada was forced aside, one of the attendants extricating him from Sweden’s grasp. He gathered up his bear and bolted outside the second he was freed, allowing the doctors space as they tried to treat him.

“Fucking hellfire,” Matthew whispered, stress and worry coursing through his being, nervously rubbing his hand against his face before turning to the polar bear to give it a stern talking-to, unable to think of anything else he could do and such was his shock.  

“Kumajirou, you seriously hurt Sweden! Waking up like that for comatose people is dangerous!” He scolded the bear, but it just stared in response. "You bit him!"

“Who are you?” the vapid creature asked. 

“Canada. For fuck's sake, Can-a-da.” Matthew resisted the urge to facepalm. 

“Oh, right… Who was that man?” Kumajirou asked, becoming aware that he was no longer playing with anything. That was a shame.

“Sweden, Berwald. Another nation.” The Canadian man could have laughed at the absurdity of making calm conversation with the now-tame bear if he wasn’t so worried for Sweden’s safety. What was going on in there? They hadn't killed him, had they?

“Hm. He was tasty.” The polar bear muttered, licking his teeth hungrily and Canada’s jaw dropped. " _Of all the..._ "

“No.” He told the bear sternly. “First Russia, now Sweden- you shouldn’t bite people!” 

“He moved!” Kumajirou muttered as if this was the worst crime in the world. “He smelled nice too- forest and snow.” The bear wondered if he might get to play with his new, and tasty, friend again. For some reason, Russia hadn’t wanted to play with him since he said how delicious he looked. 

“I’m sure he’ll be very glad to hear it,” Canada replied drily, but inside he was reeling. “ _How could I have been so stupid?”_ He moaned internally, stroking Kumajirou’s head to comfort himself. But before he could worry further, Ivan and Francis appeared in the corridor. They both looked less strained, but Matthew knew this was about to change. So much for their recovery.

“Privet Comrade Matvey,” the large Russian greeted his Canadian friend, but his smile dropped as took in Matthew’s worried features. “Matvey, what is wrong?” What had gone wrong now?

Canada scratched the back on his neck nervously. “I was talking to Sweden, and all of a sudden Kuma bit him… He woke up and panicked, I called for help and they’re with him now,” he blurted out in a rush, cheeks reddening and finding his shoes to be suddenly incredibly interesting. " _Three, two, one..."_

“Sweden’s awake?! He _bit him_?!” 

" _Bingo._ "

France was beside himself, hands clutching his hair and messing it up. The calmness he felt after spending time with Arthur had disintegrated, sending him right back into a state of stress. He did not need this, not right now!

“Yeah, his finger. He started choking on the breathing tube…” he whispered, still shocked by the fear in Sweden’s eyes. The upcoming scolding was interrupted when a nurse emerged from the room and started addressing them in Russian. Ivan said something in reply and pointed at the polar bear cub. The nurse glared at the creature and muttered something under his breath before walking back into the room. 

“What did he say, Russia? How is Sweden?” France struggling to remain calm, he could have cried.

“They’ve given him a sedative. He wanted to know what bit him- he’ll need a tetanus jab.” He replied tightly, slightly angry at Canada for being so stupid. “Why did you bring the bear anyway, Matvey? This is a hospital! It is to be hoped that the shock of waking up like that will not lead to permanent damage.” This was highly undesirable. Sweden should have been left to wake naturally and peacefully, not shocked awake like that! Who knew what sort of problems this could cause later?!

Ivan glared at Matthew like a disappointed parent, much like his actual father, Francis, was doing beside him. “I know, I’m sorry- I thought he’d be fine, usually Kuma is so well behaved,” he sighed.

Russia inwardly snorted at all the times the small bear had bitten him because he was “tasty looking, plump and juicy.”  

“ _I am not plump_ ,” he thought to himself, “ _just very sturdy_ ”.  

“Matthieu, I love you dearly, but sometimes you really need to engage your brain.” Francis sighed, placing a firm hand on his son’s shoulder as Matthew looked down at the floor. In his arms Kumajirou gave a small whimper, feeling the guilt and negative emotions of his owner and companion flowing into him; he felt bad about biting the hand of the nice smelling nation, but it was instinct- he didn't mean to hurt him. 

The attentions of the men were drawn towards Sweden’s room as the doors opened, the response team wheeling out the bed with necessary equipment in tow. Berwald was once more asleep, but there was only a mild sense of urgency from the medical professionals. Concerned, Ivan stepped forward and questioned one of the nurses, conversing for a few seconds before the nurse left to tend to follow after their patient. His shoulders slumped. 

“Ivan, what’s going on?” France’s enquiry was laden with worry. 

“It’s ok, Francis, they’re taking him for some scans.” His voice didn’t betray the anxiety he felt at this turn of events. Now he was awake would he remain so, and if he did what sort of state would he be in mentally? He didn’t want to consider what would happen if Berwald was no longer capable of being the representative of Sweden. Sighing heavily at this thought, Ivan sat down to wait for his return. 

Sensing that Ivan wanted to be left alone for a while, Francis lead Matthew down to the café- he needed a bottle of Bordeaux at this moment, but tea would have to do for him and coffee for his son, the latter of who’s recklessness was weighing heavy on his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Vad i helvete var det där?" Swedish- "What the hell was that?"  
> "FAN!" Swedish multipurpose swearword for damn, shit, fuck, bugger, etc...
> 
> Personally I think the term "wedding vegetables" sounds funnier than "vital regions", but I think that that might be a uniquely British phrase, I got it from an episode of Top Gear when it was still good.
> 
> This was originally two separate chapters in my draft but it seemed to short so I figured why not throw them together for funsies? I'm not entirely happy with the chapter, it's rather clunky I know but if I can ask you to bear with it for this chapter I promise (I hope) it'll be worth it in the next few. There is a storm brewing.... *gales of evil laughter*


	12. Sneg

 

Ivan sat for over an hour waiting for Berwald to be wheeled back to his room, sitting by the other bed and completing his paperwork to distract himself when, finally, they returned from the scans and tests. Dr Chernov noticed Russia and sat down next to him. “Hello again, Mr Russia. I was wondering if I could have a word?” He asked. 

Sweden was slumbering peacefully, his form relaxed and free of tension. Russia wondered if he'd been induced back into a coma or drifted back into one without aid. With the shock and his injuries still, it wouldn't be surprising, and there was the unwelcome prospect of any damage. On his temples, Ivan could see little traces of where they must have attached sensors and the sort, his hair messed up once more. Whatever it was, he was sure the good doctor would tell him. “Of course. What is going on? Is he fully awake now?”

“Well, from what we can see there is no physical brain damage, but we will need to wait until the sedative wears off to test things like motor function and reflexes, etc." It's always necessary to obtain physical confirmation where the brain is involved; there could be underlying nerve damage, speech complications, memory complications, any number of things, even with their healing capabilities. Always one to think about all possibilities, however remote, Dmitri had wondered if there could have been something, however snall, that he could have missed. "Mr Oxenstierna being woken up like that was not ideal in the least, but he should be fine and wake up properly soon, but it might be hours, it could even be days. There’s little point in inducing a coma now.” This reassured Ivan no end.  

“At some point we’ll be able to remove the breathing apparatus and his wounds are healing well already; I’ve never seen anything like it, it's making my life a lot easier.” The ribs were knitting together very well and so was his skin, the improvements clear and defined as if he he'd been healing for a week or more. The scars on his patient's body had shocked him greatly when they'd been able to examine Berwald fully; some were faint white lines in cream-coloured flesh, obviously hundreds of years old, while some were a little more livid, relatively more recent by maybe only a few decades. The doctor knew a little of the Viking era and the country's general history, figuring he should look into it since the human, or demi-human, embodiment of Sweden was in his care; he wondered which wounds belonged to what era's, which battles or war had inflicted the rips and tears. More than once he asked himself was the body of Russia the same? Worse, maybe, for the political turmoils and instabilities of the last hundred or so years.

Ivan gave a knowing grin to the doctor. No one had ever researched or quantified their healing processes or indeed anything about their physiology, if the pathways and mediators were the same or different to normal humans, but they generally accepted the presence of something  _special_ in their blood, some unknown element which allowed them to exist as they were, almost immortal and intrinsically connected to their lands and peoples. They were not a gestalt form in so much as they had their own free will and personalities which set them apart, there was a strict divide between the will of their people and their own wants and needs, but both were influenced by the other.

A frown flitted across Russia's face when a thought struck him. It wasn't just the physical wounds which would need taking care of now, it was the mental ones too; Berwald was unlikely to be discharged without a full evaluation and intervention, he wouldn't be able to simply discharge himself from their care and go home. For one, the Swedish Government wasn't prepared to let him- they'd already been in contact with both Ivan and the hospital to request that they get to the bottom of this mess as quickly as possible and until then Berwald had been granted compassionate leave from his work. “What will happen to him after this? Surely he needs psychological help, yes?” 

“He will indeed. It might not be sectioning, but yes, he needs assessment and treatment, either here or back in Sweden. It might be best for him to remain here for a time.” Dr Chernov wanted to keep some degree of continuity for the patient and travelling all the way back to his land before he was ready could do more harm than good. On which subject, the doctor wanted to know as much as he could about the circumstances surrounding his patient hanging himself. “Can you tell me why he tried to commit suicide? Was he depressed, did he suffer from any mental illnesses to your knowledge?”

Dmitri had found that Sweden's medical notes were not terribly comprehensive- apparently the last time he had visited a doctor was for a severe bacterial respiratory tract infection in 1979. It seemed that he loathed going to the doctors, his previous physician had even put that in his notes as an addendum to the RT infection- "patient refused hospitalisation and insisted to treat himself at home, and was hospitalised two days later when the infection became pneumonia".

The doctor was earnest in his enquiry and Russia felt able to trust him and divulge the details of the meeting, the comments made and his own assumptions of Sweden’s state of mind, including the prolonged and largely unwarranted judgements against him for the way he looked and presented himself. Ivan was by no means close to Berwald but even he saw what had been going on for years.

By the time he finished the doctor had a fairly comprehensive picture in front of him; depression, high emotional stress and low self-esteem which, after the slander he’d been faced with, resulted in the attempt while the balance of his mind was disturbed. He hummed softly in understanding. Nations were still human at their very heart, it was no surprise they were subject to the same afflictions as everyone else and everything he'd seen so far only served to prove it further. 

“That is exceedingly unpleasant, how awful for him. I’ll contact one of the hospital psychiatrists and set up an assessment. Thank you, Mr Russia, you’ve been a great help.” The doctor stood and shook his hand. "He's very lucky to have such a good friend as you and Mr France." He walked away, leaving Russia stunned.

" _Lucky?... Good friend?_ " The though struck him like a thunderbolt. Could he really be considered a friend? Perhaps, he realised, he could. He was being Sweden's friend. A warm and pleasant feeling swelled in his chest at the very thought. He was doing something right, for the first time in a long time he was doing something good. Proud, he realised, Ivan felt proud of himself, not an arrogant pride but the sensation of being recognised by another for his deeds in a positive way. His lips curled in a genuine smile, small and warm.

Ivan found himself greatly relieved and reassured by the conversation, frame considerably lighter as if a weight had been lifted. The snow was coming down thick and fast outside the window but Russia paid it no mind for once. Winter had warned him with the dream yesterday, he knew, but Dmitri's simple compliment emboldened him, it made him feel worthy. The Russian man took a full minute to observe Sweden, _his friend_. Berwald's skin tone was nearly back to its normal snowy hue, his breathing was no longer laboured and the dark circles under his eyes had lessened considerably, now just smudges of purple under long, pale lashes. 

For the first time, Russia realised just how different he seemed while sleeping. He looked younger, more approachable. Gone was the glare brought about by poor vision, the hard set of his mouth and eyebrows. There was no tension in his sleep at the moment, just calmness. Altogether, it was a massive improvement to his condition in the previous 40 or so hours. Ivan's body sagged into the chair at the bedside, Russia suddenly felt exhausted, so much had happened in less than two days; if it wasn’t for the fact that Sweden was such a physically strong and stable nation then it could have taken weeks for him to reach this stage. 

Ivan once more felt a certain sad empathy extend from his normally frigid heart to the now seemingly gentle giant before him. He understood loneliness well, and he coped with alcohol and by often being less than pleasant to his fellow nations. He regretted that now, of course, but it didn’t change the fact that Ivan really was a monster, a beast who’d shot his own people in cold blood at the behest of his then leader.  Maybe this really would be his chance of redemption, if even just a little bit, to better himself and look after another; not to undo his wrongs- he knew he was far beyond that- but to lessen his purgatory. Across their lifetimes, there wasn't a single nation who's conduct was spotless, but Ivan knew he was among one of the worse ones, the sheer scale alone of the people taken in the night from their loved ones, the lies and treachery of his Government for decades.

But here he played no part in the wrongdoing. Here, he was one of the "good guys" and he had nothing to reproach himself for, no recrimination of his actions which would lead him to find comfort in the bottom of a bottle. This was his chance, and nothing could take it away. The warmth that Ivan felt at this thought lulled him off to a peaceful sleep in the chair, quiet snoring interrupting the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

He remained that way until Francis and Matthew came back into the room, Kumajirou snuggled safely into the Canadian’s coat, and roused him from his slumber. Matthew looked at both him and Berwald in pity, guilt weighing his frame still.

“Are you ok, Ivan? Maybe you should go home, mon ami,” France suggested, concerned for his friend. “It’s been a long day.” But Ivan wouldn’t budge. 

“Nyet, spasiba,” he murmured. He wouldn’t leave until Sweden was awake again. He wanted to be there when he woke up, whenever that might happen. Instead of prying further, Francis and Matthew sat beside him in an awkward silence, fiddling absentmindedly with their phones and keeping Kumajirou occupied while Ivan continued watching Berwald sleep, slightly mesmerised by the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Matthew noted with mild amusement that some stubble had appeared, just visible on Berwald's cheeks and chin under the breathing mask. It was a shade darker than the hair on his head, and Canada tried to imagine what Sweden would look like with a beard. Odd, he decided, more like an actual Viking warrior. 

Outside the room the sky darkened peacefully, the snow-laden clouds gently releasing their fat, fluffy flakes as the sun set. The light from the streetlamps reflected by the snow and mist bathed the city of Moscow in a soft orange glow as the humans went about their business, blissfully unaware of the turmoil which had occurred in their city.  Ivan could feel all of them; it was a sensation that every personification felt, a tingle in their bones as their people’s life-force reached them. All the time the energy bubbled and fizzled as new children were born, and old children died; it was as beautiful as it was heart-breaking, and nothing could ever replace it. No joy could ever compare, no suffering as great.

Sweden was not the first to attempt suicide and he most certainly would not be the last, it was only the circumstances surrounding it that made it distinct. The traumas of war and strife were close bedfellows of the Nations, and a breakdown of one form or another was never far away.  

Feeling the energy of his peoples and enchanted by the snow, Russia was lulled into another, more peaceful, sleep. It reached 10pm by the time France and Canada grew tired enough that they had to leave, in spite of their best intentions. Russia had slept soundly while they were there, though the exhaustion he felt had not abated.

Waking him to let the Russian man know they were leaving, Canada patted Sweden’s unbandaged hand apologetically, for waking him and endangering his recovery while France offered a consoling half-smile to Russia.  

Consigning himself to the fact that Berwald would probably not wake back up until he was ready, he excused himself to the en-suite and changed for bed, keeping his scarf firmly wrapped around his neck, and made himself comfortable in the other bed- easier said than done on the unyielding mattress with scratchy sheets. It took a little while to drift off, but Ivan eventually fell into a discomforted sleep… 

Only to be awoken three hours later to the sounds of quiet sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I finally uploaded this after days (weeks) of reworking and rewriting, the next chapter will be up soon after as an apology. I've been having some personal problems of late and honestly I just left this chapter for a little while. I wrote another thing though, I have a few ideas for some fics; I've made a decent start my first ever romance... a SuFin/FinSu (bc nothing will ever convince me that Sweden isn't a total power bottom), and I would dearly love to write one for Nyo!Sweden and Belarus (I shall call this one "Knife Wife" and it will feature nothing but healthy and loving relationships all round because Belarus doesn't deserve to be typecast as the perpetual crazy knife lady with a one-dimensional personality, I know she's not like this in all fics, just a lot of them). These are also likely trash, but please do tell if this would interest you!


	13. What happened to me?

Ivan turned himself over to sit up, not bothering to turn on the light. “Shvetsiya?” He murmured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stepping onto the cool linoleum floor, padding his way to the Swede’s bed. Berwald was awake... and crying. This was only the second time Russia had ever seen the Nordic man weeping and he had to admit it was unsettling. Not because he thought there was anything particularly wrong with crying, and Berwald was making hardly any noise, but it just seemed so inherently wrong that one so formidable and intimidating was now so helpless. 

The first thing Sweden had felt when he woke up was pain, quickly followed by confusion. He didn’t know what was going on as he blinked his exhausted eyes open, limbs beyond fatigued and with an obstruction in his airway. Berwald had realised he was in hospital, the IV’s in his arm and heart monitor beeping told him that, but how, why? What had happened to him?  And why did his heart feel so heavy? That was the main reason he found himself crying; for a reason he couldn’t comprehend his heart felt so burdened and tight, and there was such a huge feeling of loss behind it that he just couldn’t process other than to let the tears flow. It was terrifying, and he just wanted it to end.

With cold and shaking hands he tried to smother his tears, pressing his palms harshly to his eyes while he struggled with the ventilator. As well as the pain in his heart, Berwald’s torso ached like he’d been hit by a car and the flesh of his neck pinched and tugged with every sob. It was dark in the room and for some reason the dark frightened him, it held him helpless and captive, driving the strength from his bones. 

He'd been left alone in the dark.

Russia gaped at the man for a moment, frozen and unsure of how to both calm him and alert him to his presence, in the end opting to not touch him but instead to speak gentle words of comfort. He’d done the same many times for his little sister Belarus when nightmares plagued her childhood. Usually he used his voice to strike fear into others hearts; it felt good to be using it to drive the fear away as best he could.

“Sweden,” Russia made his voice as soft and calm as possible, making an effort to keep his tone even and quiet. “Berwald, it’s ok, you’re safe. You’re not alone, you understand? I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s going to harm you, da? You’re going to be ok, you just need to calm down and relax yourself. It’s ok.” Ivan repeated his words over and over for a few minutes until the tremors wracking Berwald subsided, his stocky frame going limp and his breathing slowing. 

Sweden recognised the voice beside him as soon as he started speaking. It confused him that instead of feeling terror at the thought of being alone with Russia he felt strangely soothed. He believed the reassurances that he was safe, in spite of his bewilderment.

As he felt himself relax he let his hands drop from his eyes and opened them, his vision obscured by tears and the lack of his glasses as the ceiling, bathed in a warm orange glow, came into some semblance of focus. While his slightly hiccuppy breaths settled, Berwald tried to remember what had happened to him? Had he somehow been injured in a fight, or been in a car accident? Had his lands or leaders been attacked? 

 _“If it was my nation, I’d be in a worse state than this, and I can’t feel any issues. My government and royal family are still intact,"_  he felt it, they were all safe and so were his people. _"Have I been in a crash?... But I was at the…”_  

Berwald’s mind went blank. Flashes danced morbidly across his vision, none of them making proper sense to him. He recalled the world conference, but something wasn’t right. In fact it was terrifying, people were screaming at him and he felt unsafe. 

_“_ _But why?”_ A new memory of him running from the room and barrelling into someone struck him and he shook his head minutely, as if the action would bring understanding and clarity. Then a bathroom come into view and he was staring down at his hands. " _This doesn't make sense, what's happening to me?"_ He wondered, feeling more confused than before, reasoning that it must have been a dream. There were too many inconsistencies for his logical mind to make sense of the information he had at hand, promptly letting the visions drift away like clearing mist.

Sweden remembered that he was not alone and turned his head as much as he comfortably could towards Russia, his bleary eyes lighting on the shadowy figure and forgetting what he'd seen, the images becoming replaced by Ivan’s concerned face. Of all people, him? 

" _Finland!_ " He thought with a start, where was he? Berwald prayed frantically that Tino was safe, that he wasn't in the same state as he currently was. Dear God he hoped that he hadn't done anything to hurt him. What if that was why he was in such a state, if he'd finally lost control once more and-

“Privet, Sweden.” Slowly, the man met his gaze, his eyes empty of the glare they usually held and giving no outward indication of recognition or understanding. “Ahh... _du förstår_?” Ivan tried with the only piece of Swedish he could remember, but Sweden still gave no reaction- was this an indication of a brain injury, Russia asked himself? Had he forgotten everything, was that even possible?

“Berwald do you know who I am?” Finally the Swede reacted, nodding in reply though the action was a mere tilt of his head. “Do you know who you are?” Another nod, but the gesture this time was stronger, as if to say “ _Of course I do_.” Ivan puffed out a breath in quiet relief; forgetting one's identity, for a nation, was a dangerous thing, the risk of the loss of national identity, history and culture.

“That is very good. Do you remember… what happened? Anything?” Berwald looked at him for a good minute, his eyes glazing over in thought and his brow furrowing in concentration before he met Ivan’s gaze again, gently rocking his head from side to side on the pillow in a semblance of a shake. “Ah.” Ivan wondered if perhaps it was the way he was woken up which prevented him remembering, the shock, or that this would have happened anyway. Either way, there was a small chance the memories might be recovered by Berwald, but they’d have to wait and see. All things in time; he was not the medical professional, nor was his knowledge on the treatment of mental illnesses extensive beyond his own experiences.

Would this be something they could talk about, bond over? Though, perhaps "bond" wasn't the right word, Ivan realised, but it was as close as he could get to what he meant. It might be good though, he thought, if he could share his own struggles with another who'd be in a position to understand and empathise.

But again, only time would tell. Ivan’s pondering was interrupted as he saw Berwald moving out of the corner of his eye, bringing his hands up to lightly feel around his chest and face, wincing in discomfort as he pressed the bandages on his neck. He brought his attention back to Ivan, imploring silently for an explanation.  “I think it best to get the doctor now, I’ll be back in a moment, da?” Ivan replied, heading for the door and not wanting to reveal too much before Sweden was ready to hear it- it would be very hard to hear indeed. 

Though he didn’t want to be left alone again, Berwald nodded, looking at his hands and noting the heavy wrapping on his right index finger. Breathing was becoming easier as his body and mind became accustomed to the sensation of regulated air flow. This begged the question of why he was ventilated? How long had he been unconscious? After his own cursory self-examination, Berwald determined that he had at least two broken ribs and that he might well have had surgery to set them in place, especially since it felt like it was his sternum that had been broken. He had no clue what had happened to his throat and windpipe, but there was a bandage all the way around his neck. It seemed odd that these were apparently his only injuries, aside from his finger.

Thinking back, he tried to remember the little flash of a memory he’d seen of him running into someone. “ _Who was it?”_ Berwald asked himself, “ _And why was I running?_ ”

He tried closing his eyes to concentrate on the memory but doing so sent a thrill of fear through Berwald, and he felt smothered by the lack of light. This... this wasn't right, none of it was. Darkness had never scared him before, in fact he'd always found it comforting, but now he couldn't stand the absence of light around him. Closing his eyes had never felt dangerous before, and yet now he struggled to think of anything worse. But he felt so tired and weak, and everything ached and throbbed. The beeping on the heart monitor increased in frequency as panic built in his chest, his mind and body trapped and vulnerable where he lay. He- he didn't want to be alone, he needed... Just as he was getting to the point of pressing the button for assistance, Russia came back into the room with a doctor in tow.  

“Hello, Mr Oxenstierna" he greeted. "I am Dr Chernov, I've been in charge of your treatment. I am very glad to see you’re awake,” the man smiled kindly, but it didn't to a lot to reassure him. Berwald lifted his hand up and inclined it in greeting, feeling awkward and apprehensive. The doctor conducted a quick but thorough examination of his patient while he continued to talk. Thankfully, one of the first things he did was administer some morphine from the drip, having ascertained his patient was in pain. The relief was somewhat blissful and Berwald found himself growing drowsy, fighting to stay awake and listen to the doctor. All the while, Ivan stood at the edge of his field of vision, his face lacking all traces of the smile he usually plastered on. Much to his bemusement, the man actually looked as if he was concerned for him. Russia. As in "one of the (several) reasons I lost my empire, and the main reason I lost Finland."

It hurt to think of that. It especially hurt to think of Finland at all.

“We will need to complete some motor and other function tests tomorrow, but for the meantime you need to rest. Hopefully, we will be able to remove the breathing apparatus as well if your airways have healed sufficiently, but this will likely be a few more days.” Berwald gave a small nod, but he had some questions he needed to ask. Being kept in the dark was becoming both frustrating and incredibly worrying. He had to know, making a motion with his hands as if he were writing to the doctor. The doctor understood and took out his pen and pad, handing them to Sweden. 

Ivan had been sat on his bed while Dr Chernov had spoken to Berwald and he could tell already what Sweden was going to write, what he was going to ask. The doctor would know best how to handle this and Russia would follow his lead, either filling in the details tonight or waiting till the morning depending on his answer. Berwald scribbled anxiously on the paper and handed it back, Ivan’s keen eyes noting the shakiness of the script.

“ _What happened to me?_ ” The expressionless mask that Sweden had worn throughout the exchanged had slipped, and it was clear to Russia the fear which overwhelmed him, showing itself in his eyes and making him look like a lost little boy. The strong urge to protect resurfaced in the Russian, but what could he do? 

Dr Chernov scratched the back of his neck, answering carefully. “I think it might be best for you to wait until the morning, you need to rest.” Sweden shook his head resolutely, holding out his hands to ask for the pad once more. 

“ _Please, I must know._ ” If something had happened to the Nordics, or anyone else, and he'd been the cause of it, Berwald wouldn't be able to forgive himself

Ivan’s gaze met Berwald’s; there was a pleading look in his sea-coloured eyes. Dmitri sighed, weighing up his options- on the one hand it was clear that keeping this information from Sweden would cause him stress, but on the other hand it would certainly prove very traumatising if he told him the truth. He wondered if a middle-ground might be met, but in this situation it was impossible, deciding to wait until the psychiatrist was present. Now he was awake they could move things forward slightly, and there was a chance that he might remember at least something before then anyway. If he didn't, Dmitri would let his colleague decide the best course of action for their patient.

“I am very sorry, Berwald, but this is not something I feel we can address now, but we will discuss this in the morning when there is someone more specialised to help you.”

Sweden’s eyes went wide at this and scribbled on the notepad again. “ _Specialist? What's wrong with me?_ ” Oh God, what had he done?

Dmitri had revealed too much here, he’d slipped up and he knew it. Trying to dig himself out of the whole he’d successfully made he replied quickly, thinking on his feet. “Yes, there is something I need a second opinion on, but don’t worry please, I assure you that everything is fine.”

Sweden was not mollified by this and returned to writing, this time aiming the question at Russia. “ _Do you know what’s going on?_ ” 

This was the crunch time, Ivan realised. This would not help Berwald to develop trust in him, but he had no choice. “Da, Berwald, I do. But I’m not going against Dr Chernov's wishes and telling you, I’m sorry.” He saw that the doctor was relieved, but a pang of guilt went through Russia at Sweden’s crestfallen expression, distressed hurt shining from his eyes as he blinked back more tears, turning his head away from them as if to hide. Berwald tried to hand back the pen and paper, but it was waved away.

“You keep it for the time being,” he smiled, trying to comfort his patient once more. “I’ll leave you both to get some sleep. Goodnight, gentlemen.” He patted Sweden on the shoulder before leaving the room.  It was late, but he’d been assigned as the personal doctor for Sweden and so he’d been sleeping at the hospital anyway. The upside of bureaucratic string-pulling such as this was a hefty end-of-year bonus in his salary, so Dr Chernov really didn’t mind. Plus, he was helping to heal a nation, and that is not an opportunity that came by every day.

Berwald felt like his world was falling apart around him, and he was absolutely powerless to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: "du förstår?" = "You understand?", though I think the grammatically correct way of asking in Swedish would be "Förstår du?"
> 
> I'm sorry for my uneven updates and apologise for the fact that it's going to get worse. I still have lots of prewritten chapters for this and about three of four for "Like the Sky on a Cloudy Day", but I might be starting to work full time in the next couple of weeks and then in between now and September I need to sort out stuff to do my teaching qualification so that's gonna be a ball-ache and so my free time to write is going to go out of the window somewhat until things get settled, but please bear with me :)


	14. In for a penny...

After the doctor bid them goodnight Ivan went to sit by Berwald’s bed again, not knowing was else he could do in the awkward silence that followed. It was cold, so cold that he’d put his coat back on over his thick pyjamas, retrieving a blanket to cover up Sweden while he was at it. Berwald looked so lost and afraid; eyes watery and cheeks pink. With a careful hand, Ivan covered the Swede up. Absentmindedly, he patted Sweden's arm, speaking quietly, as if raising his voice any more could cause the man to shatter.

“I am very sorry, Sweden, but this is for the best. Please trust me.” He was asking a lot, he knew, maybe more than Berwald was willing to give, but he had to try. Slowly the pooling tears receded and Ivan got the distinct feeling he was being analysed.

Berwald scrutinised Russia silently as he was almost swaddled. That he found the gesture comforting was surprising, but more baffling than that was that Russia was trying to comfort him. No one did that. Not even his family, not since Fin- Berwald shook himself mentally away from thoughts of his neighbour. It hurt... more so than it usually did. Ivan had even tucked the blanket underneath his arms and around his shoulders, but he noticed the way the Russian man was ever so carefully avoiding touching his neck. Not so much a surprise given the heavy wrappings there, adding discomfort and constriction on top of the plastic tubing down his throat. Despite all that, though, Berwald felt reassured.

This didn’t make sense, there was too much conflicting information. Could he trust Ivan? The man was genuinely terrifying. He was cruel-he hurt people. He hurt Finland, hurt himself, too, all those decades ago when they were at war, striving for growth and control. There had to be an underlying motive, something Russia wanted; the man never did anything unless there was something to be gained, however far along the line the reward might come. Surely, the  _regering_ wouldn't approve of this, Ivan just wasn't to be trusted as far as Berwald could throw him!

And yet. Ivan was here. The other Nordics were not staying the night in the hospital room with him, Russia was. The people he thought family weren't there, but the one who had once been Sweden's mortal enemy had even made sure he was warm. He was there to comfort and calm Sweden when he was breaking down not minutes before, and he did it without adding to Berwald's embarrassment.

Did Ivan  _care_?

This raised even more questions. 

“Oh, I nearly forgot, Sweden- I have your glasses for you. And your cross is by your bedside,” Russia smiled at him and rifled through his coat pocket, producing said spectacles with an understated flourish. Though blurry, the smile looked genuine, not one of Ivan’s usual forced grins. Even his eyes were smiling at him.

It was like looking at a completely different person.

“ _Why did he have them?_ ” Berwald asked himself as Ivan sat the square frames atop his nose. He couldn't take it any longer. It was awkward writing whilst horizontal, and tiring, but not knowing was driving him mad. " _Gods, I hate hospitals._ " The embarrassment of catheters and bed-baths, lumpy beds and scratchy sheets, being woken up at all hours for observations... there were many reasons why Berwald had decided to try and discharge himself out as soon as he possibly could. But, for the time being, at least, he was stuck here... with Russia.

“ _How long have I been unconscious?_ ” Best to start with the obvious, he thought.

“You’ve been in hospital for only a couple of days now, about 9:30 the morning before yesterday. The second part of the World Conference was yesterday, so I’ve not been here the whole time.” He replied carefully, not wanting to dwell on the conference itself.

 _"Why are you here?"_ Any degree of tact went out the window, beating around the bush would not get the answers he needed; best to ask outright and prepare for the worst.

Ivan could see Sweden’s facial expression became more guarded as he wrote, a defensive wall being built up once more. Rather than become offended at this, Russia puffed out a breath in thought, answering cautiously.

“I’m here because…” Ivan grasped for the right words, wrinkling his nose in thought. “Because I want to help you. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

It came out blunter than intended, but it was the best Ivan could do. Sweden did not look convinced, and Russia couldn’t blame him. Neither of them were individuals given to trusting others, too old and experienced to know better. Trust was a fragile thing to Nations, so easily breakable in favour of progression. Motives were never pure, people seldom honest. He could almost predict what Sweden would be thinking of right now, the exact same things he was:

The Great Northern War. The Napoleonic War and the Pomeranian War. Ceding Finland to Russia and the Winter War. War, war, war. If ever Berwald was going to be able to trust him, they would need to clear the air. To say that he was not looking forward to that particular conversation was an understatement, but it was not something to deal with right now- later, he promised himself. He didn’t know what exactly Sweden thought of him now, but given that he hadn't outright told Russia to leave, he had to at least feel neutral towards him.

Ha. Neutral, just like his nation. But perhaps Berwald did deserve more than a simple _"I want to help you."_ It would take time to build up trust between them; Ivan needed to take that first little step into the unknown.

“I know we've never been close." Sweden's glare turned hard. "Ok, over the past few hundred years we've kicked the shit out of each other. I'm not apologising, and I know you wouldn't either. We’ve both seen and done too much for that... but we both know that not all of it was in our control.” The blank stare of the other man wavered, uncertain, and Ivan persevered. “When I say I want to help you, I mean it. You are here in my country, at one of the best private hospitals available, because of this. Besides anything else, you’re not fit to travel. Your government has given me permission to take care of you. We’re people too, Berwald. There is nothing political about this, nothing for me to gain.”

Not materially, anyway, he added with a mental sigh. “If you want me to leave, just say, I’ll go. But don’t do it because of our pasts, because of what we did. I think I’ve earned a little better than that.”

Outwardly Berwald gave no reaction to this, but inside his confusion only grew at Ivan’s declaration. Russia was right, he couldn’t deny that he knew Ivan was being genuine with him, no matter how it confused him. Sweden's  _regering_  had agreed to this, too, and so he was left with no real choice in the matter. 

And, besides any of that, Russia just might be the only nation who understood how he felt.

“ _Stay_ ,” he wrote, too tired to write anything else. Berwald tried as best he could to soften the glare in his eyes. It obviously worked, and Ivan’s lips curled up into a shy smile; Sweden was willing to give him a chance!

“Spasibo.”

Comfortable silence stretched on between them, Ivan staring out of the window while Berwald drew little patterns with the pen, thinking and fighting to stay awake. Exactly what had Sweden been involved in that Russia was helping him? And help for what, exactly? He was a perfectly capable nation, no one ever really needed to help him, and more to the point no one outside of the Nordics ever really wanted to- if they did help him is was because their government ordered them to.

“ _The Nordics_?” He didn’t dare ask outright about Finland, not to Russia.

“Da, your family is fine, nothing has happened to them or anyone else, before you ask. Though that could change…” Russia’s expression grew dark as he thought of Estonia, he’d barely been able to rein his temper in against him, to say nothing of France’s verbal shredding of Austria. A slight widening of Sweden’s eyes was the only indication of concern he displayed, staring down at his hands instead of meeting Russia’s impregnable glare.

Ivan changed the topic quickly. “You must be feeling tired, I know I am. Why don’t you go back to sleep, da?” Sweden shook his head hastily, a glimmer of fear passing across his eyes; it was only a fleeting look, but Russia caught it.

“It will be a long day tomorrow, Sweden. You should sleep,” he pressed but still Sweden shook his head, wincing as he jolted his wounds awkwardly. It almost seemed childish, refusing to sleep. “Why not, Sweden?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Sweden really didn’t want to admit it, least of all to Russia, but the thought of closing his eyes to the dark and yielding to it once more petrified him. It wasn’t just the worry that he wouldn’t wake again but it was so lonely; he hated being alone.

“ _Not tired, I don’t want to_ ,” was all he was prepared to say, hoping that Russia would let it drop.

Unfortunately, Ivan was an incredibly perceptive person. He caught the way Berwald kept looking to the small light the doctor had switched on when he came to check on him. It was obvious he was exhausted from the way his eyelids would droop every couple of minutes, the subtle changes to his breathing pattern as his body tried to drift off. But each time his eyes would close he would flex his injured hand to wake himself up.

Ivan met Berwald’s eyes and spoke earnestly, mimicking the tone and the words his elder sister Ukraine used when trying to convince Ivan to sleep; terrifying and vivid dreams of General Winter disturbed his sleep almost constantly when he was younger. Russia understood well the need to keep oneself awake to keep at bay the horror of sleep. What was it that Katyusha used to say to him?

“Nothing bad is going to happen, da?” A small embarrassed blush dusted across Berwald’s nose and cheeks before he could stop it. “You've spent the best part of two days in a coma, this is natural. But you cannot keep fighting the dark, Berwald. **Sleep** , it will all be fine.” Ivan let a soft note of his command into the words, just enough for Berwald to stop fighting. The other nation didn't even seem to notice what he'd done.

This was the most compassionate Berwald had ever known Ivan to be, and it was more than a little overwhelming for it to be aimed all at him. His assessment had been so accurate. He had thought that only Denmark and Norway could do that, could read him so accurately; his brother and brother-in-arms. The soft voice commanded him, and Sweden couldn't find a reason to disobey. It felt wrong but slowly he stopped fighting to stay awake, letting his body relax and allowing his eyes to flutter closed, his heavy body jolting a couple of times when a falling sensation overtook him. With a final thought of purple-hued eyes looking down on him and soft hands on his cheeks, he finally let go and drifted into a mercifully peaceful sleep.

Ivan smirked, not unkindly, when the sounds of soft snoring broke through the Swedish man’s nose; the light huffs of air were kind of cute coming from such a big and intimidating man. Reaching forward, he took the notepad and pen out of Sweden’s hands, gently so as not to disturb him, and carefully removed his glasses, though his nose twitched slightly as the metal frames ran over a nerve.

Russia noted how tranquil and calm Sweden looked in sleep now, comparing it to how he’d looked when he and France saw him after the operation when he’d looked half-dead. The truth could come out in the morning; he just hoped that whenever it came, Sweden would continue to accept the help and support Ivan wanted to offer.

The ice-splintering laugh at the back of his mind was resolutely ignored.

Noiselessly, Russia tiptoed back to his own bed, sending a quick text to France before he fell asleep, letting him know that Sweden was awake and that at the moment he remembered nothing. A quick check of the news headlines revealed nothing of pertinent interest, easily forgotten when a response from Francis came through:

“ _That is good news, mon ami. May I visit tomorrow then?_ ”

Ivan could see no problems with that, in fact Francis' calming presence would be appreciated greatly, and so he replied:

“O _f course. See you tomorrow_ ,” before falling asleep himself.

 

_With a flurry of keystrokes the monitor went black. Though there was no camera inside the room itself, the security camera in the hallway was mobile and provided a great vantage point for monitoring the situation. The Swedish bastard was awake, it seemed, and with "Mother Russia" for company. Quite how he'd woken up so quickly, he had no idea, but it didn't really matter. Well, he knew that stupid polar bear cub had bitten him, he'd seen the recorded footage, but that alone shouldn't have done it. Maybe it was something in the hours before he could reach his personal computer and hack into the hospital._

_Eduard would wait. He'd waited this long and had resigned himself to waiting even longer for Sweden to reawaken, though it seemed that was unnecessary. There would be a chance, an opening at some point, for him._

_The other Baltic's were refusing to speak to him, and Finland had slapped him in front of everyone. Well, nearly everyone, he corrected himself; Russia and France had left the room before it happened. How fucking dare the other Nations act as if they had nothing to do with it, as if they were innocent parties. In spite of himself, Eduard had to agree with Francis there; they had_ all  _slandered Sweden._

_God, he wished he'd had a camera for that. Fortunately his photographic memory was more than enough for his own enjoyment, but having a hard copy would be better blackmail material for future._

_The sting in his cheek (because Finland was not entirely the delicate flower everyone made him out to be, a lethal sniper and soldier) and humiliation of cleaning that fucking bathroom would all be worth it and more._

_All he had to do was wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this took a long time. Sorry about that, things have been difficult lately. But here is the next instalment- it's pretty much filler, but I hope you guys enjoyed it. 
> 
> "Regering"= the Swedish Government, or to give it it's full title "Konungariket Sveriges regering"
> 
> Next update will take a while, and I'll probably (definitely) update "Clouded" before this one, I'm just having difficulties with chapter four :P
> 
> Have a good one! :)


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